


Ulfhedinn - Part 1

by KatWylder



Series: Úlfheðinn [1]
Category: BattleTech, BattleTech: MechWarrior, MechWarrior
Genre: Gen, Mecha, Post-Clan Invasion, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatWylder/pseuds/KatWylder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 3049, the Clans descended upon the InnerSphere, devastating all who opposed their crusade. With superior technology and warriors genetically bred for combat, they cut a swath of destruction that has forever changed the galaxy. But the Battle of Tukayyid proved that they are not invincible.</p><p>No one is more convinced of this than Sigurd, a MechWarrior who has devoted his life to making the Clans pay for their crimes. In the midst of his struggle, he finds himself trapped behind enemy lines and forced to make a deal for his life. But the Clans are not the only demons he must face...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Úlfheðinn - Part 1 - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

Sigurd Volsung wet his lips with his tongue and surveyed the landscape, looking for any trace of the enemy hidden in the night. The trees and rugged foothills that concealed the small field base to his north were practically its only defense, so finding and eliminating any scouts in the area was imperative. In weeks prior, the militia had been on the offensive. After the enemy had captured their primary base, however, things went down hill quickly.

The militia's commander and his people still had the idea that their guerrilla campaign would succeed. They were fools, all of them. Perhaps he was an even greater fool for joining a war he knew was already lost.

Of course, the truth of it was that he had never cared if they won or lost. He stayed not because he was invested in the fate of this planet or even because he was paid, for they had nothing to pay him. He stayed to kill Clanners. Besides that, there was simply no point in leaving. There was no place he wanted to go, except the one place he could not return.

He nudged the _Archer's_ throttle gently. It was a solid design, though he had not quite gotten used to it. Given a choice, he preferred 'Mechs that were a little lighter and a little faster, but he could hardly complain. Since becoming dispossessed, he would have settled for a _Chameleon_ if it meant an opportunity to fight again. Slowly, he twisted the _Archer's_ torso back and forth to examine the plains, and hummed a little to himself. He stopped abruptly once he realized the tune. It was something Murata-san had taught him.

Sigurd shook his head and tried to return his attention to the task at hand. The Clanners were out here, somewhere, and it was imperative to stay on his guard. They had not displayed a tendency towards ambushes as Clan forces sometimes did in recent years, but they were very quick and very organized. The pilot he replaced had met her death when the seemingly lone 'Mech she pursued led her back to its allies.

The minutes slipped by as he widened his search pattern, looking for any hint of the elusive enemies. As he loped over a low hill, something glinted through the trees. He could not make out the chassis, but knew immediately that it was a Clan OmniMech.

As he reached for the comm, a bright glow filled the sky. The intense light overwhelmed his night vision leaving him momentarily blind. He quickly switched the displays to the infrared overlay and punched the comm.

“Major, I have visual on a Clan 'Mech heading 1-1-6,” he reported. “I just saw a flare go up, but it must have come from another unit, over.”

“Roger that, Vol—” The tactical officer's voice disintegrated into a wash of static.

Sigurd leaned on the stick, turning his 'Mech back towards the base. “ _Scheisse_ ,” he muttered aloud. They had already taken out the comm tower.

As he throttled up, an alarm sounded in his cockpit, warning of a missile lock. It seemed the Clanner he had spotted was spoiling for a fight. It had come within range of his sensors, and he could now see that it was a _Cougar_. The missiles slammed down into the _Archer_ , chipping away at its armor, but Sigurd simply ran faster. It was a distraction. His only concern was returning to the base in time to help repel the real attack.

The other 'Mechs were scrambling, and a _Griffin_ was already on the field. It scaled one of the low hills with its jumpjets and began firing off its PPC into the darkness. Infrared imaging revealed the approaching Clanners: a _Black Hawk_ , _Phantom_ , _Puma_ , and _Fenris_. The four OmniMechs swooped down over the hill crest towards the base. As the rest of the militia 'Mechs left the hangar, the _Phantom_ and _Fenris_ closed in on them. The darkness lit up as all seven 'Mechs on the field exchanged lasers and ordnance.

Sigurd was still separated from the fight by the trees and foothills, too far out of range to engage with most of his weapons. He had a clear view of the _Phantom_ , though, and it was just within reach of his LRMs. He showered it with both salvos. The attack went almost unnoticed as the _Phantom_ and _Fenris_ encircled the militia's _Centurion_. A _Hatchetman_ was close behind, and tried to give cover fire to its lancemate. The Clanners, however, were single-minded, and far superior pilots. Within the span of a few short minutes, they ripped the _Centurion_ apart.

By the time Sigurd caught up to the rest of the lance, the Clan 'Mechs had turned their attention to the _Hatchetman_. It slashed at the two Clanners nearest to it, and brought its hatchet down into the hooded chassis of the _Puma_. The blow missed cleaving into the cockpit, which only seemed to incense the Clan pilot. The _Puma_ lashed out with both of its ER PPCs, and tore off the militia 'Mech's hatchet arm. The _Hatchetman's_ right leg was the next to go. Even as it crashed into the soil, the MechWarrior tried to stave the Clanners' attacks, or at least wound them. Its shots were poor, however, and the _Fenris_ and _Puma_ came away with barely a scratch more than they had already taken.

The situation was rapidly deteriorating. Now that the two lightest 'Mechs in their lance were gone, Sigurd and the _Griffin_ pilot found themselves encircled by the Clan Star. Neither MechWarrior spoke to the other. The only thing to do now was go hard at the Clanners, and hope they could bring down one of the more damaged OmniMechs.

The more mobile _Griffin_ leapt into a stand of trees, using the cover to shield it long enough to lay down fire on the approaching _Fenris_. The little 'Mech was quick, but the _Griffin_ stayed after it, and lopped off an arm. Sigurd kept the _Puma_ at bay with his LRMs and tried to move in closer. The _Archer_ was sluggish in this terrain, though, and lacked the jumpjets that let the _Griffin_ bound over the foothills.

Sigurd caught a glimpse of light from an explosion to the east. While he and his ally tangled with the _Fenris_ and _Puma_ , the other three 'Mechs closed in on the militia base. Sigurd let loose all of his weapons into the _Fenris_ , then swiftly turned and sprinted towards the base.

“Hey!” the _Griffin_ pilot cried, realizing that he was being abandoned. “I need fire support!”

“Negative,” Sigurd replied curtly. The other pilot was expendable, and the base was not.

The _Puma_ and _Griffin_ slugged at each other, but the _Griffin_ was not nearly so good a gunner as his opponent. Even inside his cockpit, Sigurd could hear the bark of missiles and the whine of metal limbs torn from the allied 'Mech.

“Bastard! You mercenary fu—”

As the radio fell silent, Sigurd opened up with all of his weapons on the _Phantom_. It stumbled under the hail of missiles and laser fire, and scraped the dirt with its gun arm. When the _Phantom_ stood, the end of its arm was twisted, useless now. The _Black_ _Hawk_ turned towards him briefly and raked his chassis with its lasers, before returning to the base's destruction. Between them, the Clanners had destroyed the generator and hangar, in addition to the comm tower taken out in their first pass. Casually, the _Black_ _Hawk_ tore through the barracks.

Sigurd bit his lip. Only the HQ remained, but at this point, there was little chance he could save what was left of the militia base—and the people in it. He narrowed his eyes, lining up a careful shot on the _Puma's_ scarred hull as it approached him. His SRMs impacted the Clanner's armor, piercing into its internals. He could not stop them, but he could still hurt them. As the _Puma_ began to crumple under his weapons' fire, his 'Mech was rocked by LRMs. Sigurd kicked the light 'Mech angrily, maiming its leg, and turned to face the new attacker. The _Cougar_ that harassed him earlier had returned, and this time it was intent on bringing him down.

Its ferocity surprised him at first, but as he studied its motions, it became increasingly clear that this was a command 'Mech. Its pilot was quick at the controls and, unfortunately for Sigurd, was a very good shot. One of the _Cougar's_ large lasers slashed down the _Archer's_ torso, and missed sizzling him right in the cockpit by only a hair's breadth. To his right, he heard the ferro-glass groan from the heat.

Sigurd turned and swung his arms up to protect his head as one of the panels popped inward. Shards of ferro-glass sliced his arms and hands, but he ignored it and grabbed the control sticks again. Already, the _Cougar_ was trying to capitalize on that distraction, and he could not afford to let it do so. More LRMs rained down on him, and he felt something loose in the cockpit slash his calf. He returned fire with his SRMs, then carved into the _Puma_ with his rear-mounted lasers. Sigurd gave a little smirk of satisfaction as it withdrew, surprised and still limping from its earlier injury.

The _Cougar_ , meanwhile, shook off the damage done by his missiles, and continued pressing its attack. It was very slow for a 'Mech of its size, but its pilot maneuvered easily through the hills and trees. At every turn, it bore down on him and picked at his _Archer's_ wounds. One of its shots plucked off his right arm off at the elbow. His armor was dangerously low, now, and his heat levels were climbing. The _Puma_ was trying once more to catch him unawares, but he caught sight of it in his peripheral vision and swiftly twisted to face it. Sigurd took a deep breath and lined up his crosshairs on the stooped OmniMech. He squeezed the trigger and put a salvo of SRMs through its cockpit.

Just as the _Puma_ fell, so too did the militia base. He heard the building collapse like a thunderclap, and the wrecking crew then turned their attention to him. All three remaining Clanners clawed into him, and the computer struggled to relay the cascading damage.

“Critical hit: left ar— Critical hit: right tors— Critical hit: engi— Critical hit: leg actuator. Critical hit: gyro. Critical hit— Heat level critical. Critical hit missile— Critical— Critical— Ammunition explosion imminent in: _five_...” the computer informed him.

Sigurd felt his heart skip a beat, the bleating of the computer's warnings echoing in his head, and let off the throttle to reach for the ejection switch. He flipped back the cover plate and slammed his fist down on it.

Nothing happened.

The clamps would not release. He punched it again, harder. Nothing. A red light blinked on his console next to the "EJECT" button. The clamps had malfunctioned.

“No!” he screamed and slammed a bloody fist down on the console. There was no way out.

Sigurd released his grip on the control stick, then removed the cumbersome neurohelmet to shake some of the ferro-glass out of it, and ran his hands through his sweat-drenched hair. No weapons, no engine and no way out. He clenched his fists, then relaxed, drew in a deep breath and calmly waited.

“ _Four_...”

He was going to die.

Sigurd laid his head back against the command couch and closed his eyes. A grim smile crept across his face. As bleak as things were on this planet, he had not actually expected to die here. He did not know what he had expected. Even so, he was not afraid.

 _I guess it's overdue,_ he told himself.

A few seconds more, then his 'Mech would be blown apart and he would be a million tiny pieces strewn across the battlefield. Just a few more seconds. He just had to wait.

“ _Three_...”

It would be quick.

“ _Two_...”

He would not suffer.

“One...”

Something shook his 'Mech and threw him headfirst onto the console. Sigurd felt a sharp stab of pain, and then—

Nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a curious Wolf appears.

Chapter 2

 

There was only darkness now. Shadow against shadow. He felt weightless and yet he could not move or even breathe, it seemed. He could not sense his body or feel his own skin, but he did feel very, very cold.

He could not remember how he had come here. The void was consuming him steadily, draining away his senses and memories. Somehow, the experience was not frightening but comforting. Without recollection, there was no suffering; without sensation, there was no pain.

Just as he began to surrender to the peace that enveloped him, the darkness gave way to light. It was blinding and white-hot. Even as he struggled to process the explosion of stimuli, he became aware that the light concealed the presence of others.

He felt something, like a whisper in his mind, saying, _Get up. Go. Fight._

_It is not safe here._

Sigurd bolted upright, wild-eyed. He immediately grabbed at the sensors pasted to his skin, and ripped them off.

“Sedate him!” someone shouted. “Hold him down!”

He scrambled off the bed, half-tumbling out of it, and shoved past the nearest medic. The stark whiteness of his surroundings hurt his eyes. Barefoot and practically naked, save for the bandages on his wounds, he scrambled across the slick floor. He had no idea where he was going but he was desperate to escape. His vision began to readjust in time to see a man in olive drab fatigues step into the doorway.

“Please, we do not wish to harm you,” he said, putting up his hands. There was something familiar in the man's amber eyes, but Sigurd could not place it. “We are only trying to treat your injuries.” Then, he noticed the red wolf's head patch sewn onto the right shoulder of the man's coat.

Immediately, he realized where he was. This was a Clan base, and he was a prisoner of war. A primal, animal panic seized him. Images and impressions of the last time he had been at the mercy of Clanners came leaking back into his mind, and his scars burned with remembered pain. He wouldn't—couldn't—endure that again.

_Flee. Fight,_ a whisper urged. _Survive._

Sigurd narrowed his eyes and pushed a heavy cart of supplies into the man. The Clansman went sliding into the wall behind him, followed shortly by the cart. A nurse tried to pin him down, but he put a stop to that with a kick to the man's ribs. He scrambled out the door and down the hall.

His escape did not go unnoticed or unopposed. More cries for his capture rang after him as he bolted down the hall. As he turned a corner, one of his pursuers managed to grab him by the shoulder. As he turned to fight, Sigurd was surprised to see that the woman behind him was almost half a meter taller than him and proportionally muscular. He had never encountered an Elemental in person before, but had no time to be surprised by it. She clamped down on his arm with her other hand and tried to pull him towards her. Sigurd twisted around and kicked her in the stomach, and the giant woman stumbled back into a man of similar height.

“ _Surat!_ ” she exclaimed. Enraged, she grabbed him again and put him in a triangle choke.

Sigurd dug his fingers into her arm, trying to break her grip, and twisted his head to ruin the choke. He still found himself quickly losing consciousness. Suddenly, he heard someone cry out behind him.

“Drop him, Elaine!”

The woman promptly released him and Sigurd limply fell to the ground. His eyes flickered open as the blood flow to his brain normalized. The Clan warrior from the infirmary knelt down beside him.

“Are you injured?” he asked.

Sigurd rolled over onto his back and looked up at the man. “ _Gehst zu Hel_ ,” he mumbled and closed his eyes, too dizzy to fight or stand. The woman named Elaine lifted Sigurd up, and helped her male compatriot hoist the half-unconscious prisoner over his shoulder.

“Uff. He is heavier than he looks,” remarked the other giant.

“Just be careful with him, Kasha,” the first warrior implored in a rather exasperated tone. “I want him in one piece, thank you.”

“Please, Akela. Your little prisoner will be fine,” replied Elaine with a wave of her massive hand. She yawned disinterestedly and followed the other Elemental.

“Just take him back to the infirmary, will you? I want him brought to my office after the medics have seen to him.”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd stumbled as the guards pushed him through the doorway, and fell to his knees in the middle of the Akela's office. He rolled onto his back quickly and brought his bound hands around in front of him, then rolled back onto his feet. The Clansman sat at the desk across from him and leaned back in his chair, watching.

“That was a bit dramatic, but I will give you points for style.” Akela chuckled and smoothed his close-cropped beard. “So, how are you feeling? Better, _quiaff_?”

Sigurd glared and remained silent.

“Of course. I shall get to the point.” He clasped his hands together and offered a genteel smile. It was rather disconcerting. “The militia here is pathetic. The only thing they seem to excel at is _hiding_. They are not warriors. Not like you.”

“What?” The apparent compliment caught him off guard.

Akela chuckled. “It takes discipline to completely ignore enemy fire. I was quite surprised when I could not draw you off.”

“You're the _Cougar_ pilot.”

“Aff,” he said, chuckling again. “Imagine my surprise when you defeated two of my Starmates. Your performance in that battle was admirable. In fact, you are the first MechWarrior I have faced on this mud ball to present any real challenge.”

Sigurd bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, studying Clansman's face for a clue about his intentions. Akela just kept smiling inscrutably. “And that means...?”

“That you are worth saving.”

He did not like where this was going.

“What is your name?”

For a moment, Sigurd did not reply. Finally, though, he decided giving his name would neither harm nor help. He might as well have the Clanners call him something besides one of their peculiar epithets. “Sigurd Volsung.”

“I am Star Colonel Akela Kerensky.” The Clansman stood and walked around to the other side of his desk. “I think you have potential. Therefore, I would like to offer you a choice. Your first option is to become my bondsman.”

Instantly, he felt his blood boil. “What makes you think I would ever be your slave?”

“The bond is _not_ slavery,” Akela said tersely. “That is a lie—spread by ComStar, no doubt. No, think of it as... a probationary period. As bondsman, you would become my responsibility, but not my servant. And nothing would hold you here but your own honor. Prove yourself worthy, and you may be adopted into the Clan according to your abilities and merit. Bondsmen may even win a position in our Warrior Caste.”

Sigurd began to shake with anger. Amid the tumult, a sliver of rational thought emerged: picking a fight at this moment would only put him back in the infirmary. He tried to rein himself in, but rage still boiled up through his veins. It was too soon, too close to the pain that had brought him here. “All my suffering has been because of you. The Jade Falcons murdered my father, and the Jaguars—” He grit his teeth to stop himself from screaming. “The Jaguars deserved everything they got. You're monsters. All of you! And you think I want to _join_ you?” he seethed.

Akela grinned suddenly. “Oh, I think you very much do. You see, we are Clan _Wolf_. We are nothing like the late Smoke Jaguars. And while the Jade Falcons have been our allies from time to time, I assure you it is only a matter of convenience. They are our oldest enemy, and we have not forgotten what they have done to our Clan,” he continued. There was a fleeting glint of hatred in the Clansman's eyes. “ _I_ have not forgotten.”

The tremors began to subside a little. He needed to buy himself time. “You said I had a choice. What's the other option?”

Akela took a knife from the scabbard at his hip. “Bondsref,” he answered. “You may refuse your bond honorably with the blade.”

“If I defeat you, I go free?”

“No, you misunderstand.” Akela twirled the knife idly. “Bondsref is not a fight or a contest.”

 _Suicide_. He had been prepared to accept death, but he would not throw himself at it. Sigurd felt himself growing angry again. “What kind of choice is that?”

“The only choice you have. You do not seem keen on the idea of bondsref. Frankly, neither am I.” He sheathed his knife and looked Sigurd in the eye. “The Wolves and Falcons have been at each other's throats for centuries. A little cease-fire between our two Khans cannot erase that enmity. When the cease-fire dissolves—and trust me, it _will_ —where do you want to be? Skulking around on backwater planets, fighting hopeless wars? Or drowning the Jade Falcons in their own blood?”

Sigurd was quiet for a moment. “You... can guarantee me the opportunity to fight them?”

“No, that depends entirely on you. It depends on whether you show the skill to become a Clan warrior and, of course, whether you survive long enough. I guarantee only that you will be allowed to _earn_ that opportunity.”

He bowed his head. The very idea of serving the Clans, the Invaders, turned his stomach. Yet, he could not deny that Akela had a point. Even if he went free now, the chance for revenge was slim. He had expended all his resources getting just this far. He might never make it to the Falcon border. Even if he did, he had nothing to fight with but his own two hands.

In the end, though, what he thought and what he wanted was immaterial. There was only one chance to get out of this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new acquaintances are made.

Chapter 3

 

Sigurd tugged at the cord bracelet around his right wrist absently. It was new and different—two of his least favorite things. Fortunately, it was unobtrusive. Akela explained that it was the mark of his bondservice. Each of the three interwoven cords was a different color, which indicated the Clan to which he now belonged and the unit that had captured him. The cords also represented integrity, fidelity and martial prowess: values which he must demonstrate in order to be released from his bond.

He wondered constantly if he had made the right choice. Perhaps suicide really would have been better. The more he thought, however, the farther back his thoughts went. He should never have taken the bondcord. He should never have come to this planet. He should never have left Virentofta. He should never have become a mercenary, and so on and so on. Sigurd shook his head and breathed deeply, trying to clear his thoughts.

Taking the bondcord _was_ the right choice. It let him survive, and it bought him time. There might still be a way out of this, but he would have to be patient. It was time to start playing the long game, and learn to act the model Clansman that Akela clearly intended him to become.

He clasped his left hand around his right wrist, as if he could massage away the phantom pangs the cord bracelet gave him. At least nothing else hurt, now that his wounds were tended. He was honestly surprised by the way the Wolves treated him. He was given fresh clothes, decent food and was free to move throughout much of the base. Although Akela had already told him that he was not a very valuable source of intel, he was surprised they made no attempt to interrogate him. He was most grateful, though, not to be further poked and prodded by the sour-faced medic.

“MechWarrior,” said a man walking up behind him, “why are you—”

The Clansman stopped and drew back in surprise as Sigurd turned to face him. “I think you have mistaken me for someone else,” he answered carefully. “I am a bondsman.”

The other man's expression morphed from surprise to sheer contempt. His irises were a deep green that reminded Sigurd all too much of a jungle cat's eyes. “ _You!_ You are the freebirth who pulverized my 'Mech!” He shoved Sigurd back against the wall. “What Akela wants with a mercenary _surat_ , I cannot imagine.”

“I am _not_ a mercenary.” A slight growl edged into his voice, but Sigurd bit back the impulse to say anything further on the matter. “Is there something you want from me? Or are you going to leave me to my duties?”

The green-eyed MechWarrior looked up and down the hall, then back at him with a sneer. “I do not see you completing any tasks, and I do not like your tone.” He clasped his hand over Sigurd's shoulder, digging his fingers down into the nerves above the bondsman's collar bone.

Sigurd just arched his eyebrows. He had long ago lost any sense of pain there.

The door beside them opened, and Akela and Elaine stepped out of the office. The Star Colonel frowned as soon as he noticed the two men. “Is there a problem, Gunnar?”

The MechWarrior's lips curled back in what might have been an attempted smile. He did not seem very practiced at it. “None at all, ovkhan.”

It was fortunate, Sigurd thought, that Clanners didn't roll their eyes, or Akela's might have rolled right out of his skull. “Indeed,” the Star Colonel muttered. 

Gunnar chuckled and pulled Sigurd slightly closer, as if in a gesture of camaraderie. “Akela cannot keep an eye on you _all_ the time,” he hissed, just loud enough for Sigurd to hear. With that, the man gave him a pat on the shoulder and continued down the corridor.

“Making friends everywhere you go, _quiaff_ , bondsman?” asked Elaine with a chuckle.

“I apologize for injuring you, yesterday, Warrior.” He started to bow out of habit, but then thought better of it, and merely gave a nod of his head.

“Star Captain,” she corrected him. “There is no need to apologize. I consider the matter closed.” The big woman twirled the end of her long braid around her finger and smiled. “On an _entirely_ unrelated note, you will report to me for hand-to-hand combat training, starting tomorrow. Quiaff?”

“Yes, Star Captain.”

“ _Aff_ , Star Captain,” she corrected him, again.

“Aff, Star Captain.”

“Mm, he learns quickly,” she remarked to Akela.

“Aff, and I have better things for him to be doing than parroting whatever you say, Elaine. I shall see you this evening.” He turned and waved for Sigurd to follow him back into the office. “Tell me, Sigurd,” he began as they walked, “you were part of the mercenary company here, _quiaff_?”

“No, I was _not_ ,” he spoke sharply, tired of hearing that insinuation. “What gave you that idea? Sir.”

“Touched a nerve, have I? Hm. You have a different accent than the soldiers. You fight differently, as well. I assumed that meant you had come to this planet as a mercenary.”

He frowned still, but softened his tone. “It is true that I am foreign to this planet, but I did not operate as a mercenary. I fought as part of the regular forces, when the militia needed to fill its ranks. I was provided a 'Mech, ate and lodged with the other soldiers, and was never paid for my service.”

“So, you are an immigrant? I find it odd that a Spherer would _choose_ to move so deep into Clan territory.”

He shook his head. “I came to fight, not to live here.”

“What House are you from, then?”

“I belong to no House. I was born in the Periphery.”

Akela stroked his fingers over his short goatee. He seemed ready to ask another question, but paused. “I should explain more about your position,” he said, having apparently decided not to pursue the previous subject. “I understand that bondservice is confusing to outsiders. To be perfectly clear, you now belong to this Clan, the same as myself or any other Wolf. You have some familiarity with Clan castes, _quineg_?”

“A little. I know what they're called—er, what they _are_ called.” Excising contractions from his speech was not easy, but it seemed best to start practicing the subtleties now.

“All bondsmen are _de facto_ members of our Laborer Caste, with most of the same rights. However, that does not necessarily determine the duties you will be assigned—”

“ _Most_ of the same rights?” Sigurd broke in. Immediately, after he had two thoughts. The first was that interrupting a Clan officer was unwise. The second, was that he should not concern himself too much with what rights the Wolves chose to give him, when he was going to kill them all, anyway.

“Aff,” Akela replied, unfazed by the interruption. “Until your bondservice ends, you may be restricted from certain areas, or may require a warrior escort in secure locations. I believe marriages are not granted during bondservice. I will obtain a copy of all the regulations for you.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

The Star Colonel nodded and retrieved a data crystal from his desk. “From this point forward, you will have three tasks. First, you will work. Secondly, you will train. And lastly, but most importantly,” he said, offering the crystal to Sigurd, “you will learn.”

“Yes, Star Colonel.”

Akela sat down in his chair. “Tomorrow you will start your training, and begin assisting our technicians with maintaining and repairing the 'Mechs. You will need to familiarize yourself with our technology. Today, and whenever you have free time, you are to read on the history of the Clans and the ways of Clan Wolf. There is a public terminal in the room next to the mess hall, which you may use,” he explained. “Before you do anything else, though, go to your quarters and change into a Laborer's uniform. People might mistake you for a warrior in that jumpsuit.”

“Of course.” Sigurd suppressed a grimace. He turned the data crystal around in his hands, and noticed his own reflection in it. “Why me?” he asked suddenly.

Akela raised an eyebrow.

“Why did you want _me_ as a bondsman?” Sigurd elaborated.

The Star Colonel ran one hand back through his chestnut hair, his fingers unconsciously tracing a long, thin scar that trailed from his forehead back into his hairline. “I already told you. Besides, you _did_ kill one of my MechWarriors. I have to replace Kahil.” He turned to his computer and started typing. “You should begin your reading.”

The corners of his mouth tugged into a frown, and he pocketed the data crystal. “Aff, Star Colonel.” Akela had a good poker face. Yet Sigurd sensed that he was not telling the whole truth; surely, the Clan could provide another pilot.

As he turned to leave and put a hand on the door frame, he paused. He could have sworn he felt a faint tremor. “Did you feel that...?”

“Shh,” Akela hissed sharply. He closed his eyes as if to hear better, and knit his brow in concern.

Sigurd felt to door frame shake again. Alarms sounded in the base.

“Proximity alarm,” Akela said, jumping up from his chair. “I must get to the hangar. Go to the ground level and—”

Before Akela could finish his sentence, there was a loud crack of autocannon fire. Hardly a second later, another loud boom shook the building, and the right half of the room disappeared. Sigurd had never been that close to a passing gauss slug outside of a 'Mech. And he hoped he never would be again. He scrambled back to his feet as quickly as he could, brushing off dust and rubble.

“That came from a ship!” Sigurd shouted over the din. He knew that the mercenaries had a DropShip, but he hadn't imagined they were reckless enough to launch a direct assault with it.

He saw Akela snarl something in response. Probably, “Freebirths.”

The office door was now blocked by wreckage, but the newly created hole in the wall of his office was just big enough for a person to fit through. Sigurd clambered over the rubble and squeezed between the exposed pieces of rebar into the hall. Sigurd followed. They emerged into the corridor to find it a mess of concrete rubble and metal bars. The building shook again and part of the ceiling collapsed in front of them.

“New plan,” Sigurd said hurriedly. He darted back into the office, grabbed the desk chair and slammed it into the window.

Akela approached cautiously and peered down at the field. BattleMechs lay strewn across the grass like metal hills—remains of those who first responded to the assault. The mercenaries' aerospace fighters speared ground targets with their lasers, swooping after any movement they spotted.

“It's only two storeys,” Sigurd insisted.

He did not wait for his bondholder's permission. More of the ceiling began to crumble, and they did not have precious minutes to debate. He kicked some of the glass shards from the window, then gripped the frame and jumped down. The ground was hard, but he let himself roll with the impact and back onto his feet, minimizing the damage.

Akela jumped after him, performing much the same maneuver. As he stood up, another gauss slug plowed into the wall behind them, sending a burst of shrapnel in its wake. Something hit Akela in the calf.

Sigurd had started to run, but slid to a stop when he heard the Clansman grunt in pain. Akela's injured leg buckled under him and he sank to the ground. His breathing was quick and shallow as he fought the pain and tried to stand. There was no good reason for it, Sigurd would later admit, but he turned and ran back to Akela's side.

“I can manage,” the Clansman protested.

Sigurd ignored the remark, and put the man's arm over his shoulder as he stood, balancing Akela's weight against his own. “Come on.”

Their pace was slow, but they managed to move from cover to cover, avoiding the notice of the AeroSpace fighters overhead. Eventually, they made it to the shelter of the forest and waited. The battle dragged on for what felt like an age, but the length of the shadows revealed that it had lasted less than half an hour. Dense smoke wafted through the trees from the battlefield, carrying the scents of charred grass, molten metal, and burning flesh. When the smoke finally cleared, it was the mercenaries who emerged victorious.

“I need to go back,” Akela said, “and search for survivors.”

“Not on that leg.”

He turned and gave Sigurd a severe look. “Regardless of our situation, I still give the orders.”

“Sorry. Sir.” It had been some time since he was used to taking orders, much less calling anyone “sir.” He scuffed at the ground idly with his boot. “I can try to remove the scrap.”

Akela looked him over and frowned gravely, no doubt considering this offer in combination with the array of scars on Sigurd's face and arms. However, it would be difficult for Akela to get the shrapnel out himself, and he knew it. Besides that, the longer it stayed in his leg, the worse his wound would become.

“Fine,” he agreed. He reached down to his belt and, with some hesitation, handed his combat knife to the bondsman.

Sigurd sat down next to him, cut off the leg of Akela's fatigues to expose the wound, and propped his injured leg on a rock. After a moment to inspect it, he began to work. Sigurd was good with a knife and made every effort to be delicate, but he knew from experience that this was not a painless procedure. Akela remained silent, though, his gaze fixed straight ahead and jaw set; only the quickness of his breathing and the loss of color in his face indicated distress. Finally, Sigurd finished the operation and dressed the wound with the cut of cloth he had.

“Thank you,” said Akela, sighing.

“I'll look for something to disinfect the wound, when we go back.” Sigurd cleaned the knife on the grass and returned it, then moved back to where he had been sitting, to watch the field.

The mercenaries' salvage teams were out now, picking over the remains of the base and the Wolf 'Mechs they had felled. It did please him to see the Wolves' operations in ruin. At the same time, he found himself angry. It was hard to say who he hated more: Clanners or mercenaries.

The two men sat in silence for a long time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. An unpleasant sort of quiet settled over things as time went by. There were no sounds of birds or any other animal in the woods. The breeze had died, as well, so there was not even a sighing of branches above them. The stillness, while calming at first, soon became uncomfortable. That made the crunch of brittle fir needles behind them all the more noticeable.

Sigurd turned and leapt up, grabbing the knife back from Akela. The Clansman glared at him, but stayed quiet and tried to get back on his feet.

A tall, dark-eyed woman emerged from the foliage. She held her own knife at the ready, but stopped when she saw Akela. “Star Colonel!” She put it away and ran both hands over her close-shaved head, sighing in relief. “I am glad to see you.”

“Lorna.” He smiled and relaxed, leaning against the nearest tree. He took his knife back from Sigurd with a reproving look and sheathed it again. “Are you alright?”

“I will be. Those surats overwhelmed me and drove me towards the guns of their DropShip. I was lucky to eject safely.” Then, with hesitation, she added, “Safak was not so lucky.”

“Have you seen anyone else?”

“Neg, only you, ovkhan. I have no idea what happened to my other Starmates.”

Sigurd turned from the MechWarriors' conversation and brought his attention back to the field. It was nearly nightfall and the lights of the merc salvage vehicles were growing steadily fewer. It seemed they had what they wanted.

“I think their DropShip is nearly ready to depart, Star Colonel,” he advised.

“Scum-sucking _freebirths,_ ” Lorna spat. Clan curses seemed mild compared to the kind of language favored in the InnerSphere, but the passion in her voice made her words sound so much more caustic. She turned to Akela. “Once they leave, I will search the ruins, ovkhan.”

“Aff. Take Sigurd with you,” he instructed. “I shall stay here. I would only slow you down.”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd did not feel entirely comfortable with Lorna's presence, but she did not seem at all bothered by him. Still, he did not speak unless she spoke to him, and followed her instructions without remark. He had no desire to make any more enemies, if he could help it.

They found some corpses and burnt remains as they picked through the wreckage, but few signs of life. When they finally did discover a surviving MechWarrior, he was barely conscious and dying painfully from his wounds. Unable to heal him, Lorna ended his suffering and collected his codex.

As she turned and walked away, he noticed that her posture had changed. The sharp, military bearing had dropped with weariness. That MechWarrior, he realized, was someone she knew—perhaps even someone she cared for.

“You will not speak of this to the Star Colonel,” she cautioned Sigurd, as he approached her. Although her tone was stern, there was a waver in her voice he had never expected to hear from a Clanner.

He nodded mutely. As difficult as it had been to watch, it must have been even harder for her; he could not find it in himself to condemn her actions.

Some time later, they caught sight of another man stumbling through the wreckage, apparently in the midst of conducting his own search. He froze when he saw them, looking a bit shell-shocked. His jumpsuit was torn, one of his cheeks was burnt, and he cradled his right arm awkwardly, as if it were broken. Lorna recognized him first, but a glimpse of his bright green eyes jogged Sigurd's memory.

“Gunnar!” Lorna exclaimed. She clambered down over the severed limb of an _Uller_ and ran up to him. Sigurd half expected her to hug the other warrior.

Gunnar, however, ignored her entirely. “What are _you_ doing here?” he snarled at Sigurd, brushing past Lorna without so much as a friendly glance. He glowered. “This is your doing, _quiaff_?! You led the mercenaries to us!”

Lorna punched him in the shoulder of his good arm. “Stop being such a _surat,_ ” she snapped.

He looked taken aback. “But he—”

“Is a lot quieter than you, thankfully.” She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Good to see you, by the way. I thought you were dead.”

Gunnar raked his good hand through his thick black hair, brushing away the ash that had settled on him. He gave Lorna a resentful look, but also seemed chastised.

“Let me see your arm,” she demanded.

He complied, extending it to her gingerly. She gave him her canteen, and then picked up a metal rod to use as a splint. Gunnar drank eagerly, and held his arm still while she looked over it.

Sigurd hung back, watching them curiously. Despite the circumstances, he found their interaction amusing. They looked nothing alike, but the two MechWarriors behaved was as much like siblings as he had ever seen.

“I think we should look for the Elementals,” Gunnar said as Lorna finished splinting his arm. “I saw them in the hangar, just before the attack. If they got into their armor, they could have survived.”

“Agreed.”

At Lorna's approval, Sigurd followed after them, but continued to keep his distance. He did not trust Gunnar for a moment, even wounded as he was. Once they reached the hangar, however, everyone set to the task of finding the Elementals without delay.

The hangar was one of the most heavily damaged parts of the complex. It had clearly been a priority target for the mercenaries, and they spared no expense in shells to destroy it. This was also the site of the worst carnage. They found several bodies and even more parts of bodies that could not be matched up. Many of the dead were technicians. The MechWarriors with him seemed, in some ways, far more angry about that than the dead of their own caste. From what he overheard of their conversation, it seemed that Lorna and Gunnar felt that warriors' deaths were somehow more fair.

It took them some time, but eventually, they located the Elementals. Elaine was the first one they were able to free. She had finished suiting up before the attack, as Gunnar predicted, and so her injuries were minor. With her help, they quickly located the other surviving members of her Point. Three of them had made it into their armor in time to avoid being crushed. Like Elaine, they did not have any severe wounds.

Once they had a little time to recover, the Clanners began to discuss their next move. It took awhile for them to take notice of Sigurd, and he used the time to continue searching. He noted, during the course of their search, they had found far fewer bodies than he would have expected. Either most of their personnel had escaped, or the Clanners' numbers were already small.

It seemed they had, at least at the outset, two full Stars of 'Mechs. He also knew that, as a rule, Clanners had at least one Star of Elementals, if they had any at all. Smaller divisions than that were rare. That made for thirty-five warriors in all, at his most conservative estimate. On the other hand, thirty-five souls seemed a very small command for a Star _Colonel_. Sigurd looked up at the stars through the hole in the hangar roof as the answer dawned on him.

The Wolves had not fully deployed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pieces are gathered.

Chapter 4

 

Morning found the band of Wolves tired, aching and cold. It was a chilly day and the dew had soaked them all to the bone. Since fires were out of the question with the mercenaries around, everyone huddled together in little groups for warmth. Sigurd made himself the sole exception and slept in the crook of a tree. What made the warriors most uncomfortable, however, was that they were “naked” without their war machines. Even the Elementals had been forced to abandon their suits due to fatigue and electronics damage.

The Star Colonel alone seemed unfazed. His mobility was still limited, but he did not let his wound affect his bearing. Even limping, Akela carried himself with an air of self-assurance and command. It was not the typical arrogance Clanners were infamous for, but a strength of purpose. His subordinates needed to see that in him. It was doubly important now that the number of survivors had risen beyond a handful of warriors.

The first few, along with Sigurd, had worked through most of the night to locate and rescue as many people as they could. They found only two of Lorna's Starmates, but some of the other units had better luck, including Akela's own Star. The command structure was in a bit of disarray, particularly among the technicians they found, who had suffered the highest casualties. Already, there was some friction over changes in command.

In spite of that, the Wolves showed no lack of discipline. Sigurd found it interesting to watch how they behaved under stress. Like their namesake, they regrouped, adapted, and reorganized. It was merely part of life. They would pick up the pieces, they would rebuild, and then they would make their foes pay. There would be no mercy, now.

His thoughts were interrupted as a woman in a technician uniform approached. She looked up at him curiously as he sat perched in the branches. “You're a bondsman, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he answered somewhat hesitantly. Despite the woman's rather meek bearing, something in the way she looked at him made him intensely uncomfortable. “Do you require assistance?”

For a moment, they just stared at one another like two animals crossing paths unexpectedly in a forest. Finally, she pulled back the sleeve of her coveralls, revealing a bondcord. “Come find me, later. I think we should talk.”

Sigurd frowned in confusion. Before he could ask her to clarify, the woman hurried off to catch up to the other technicians. His gaze followed her for a moment, but she gave no indication of returning. With a sigh, he dropped down from the tree and landed with a soft thud on the mossy ground. He rolled his shoulders as he stood, his muscles feeling a little stiff from the way he had slept, and then went to see what Akela had for him to do.

The Star Colonel stood at the edge of the treeline, speaking with some of his subordinates. Gunnar and Lorna were among the crowd.

“Lorna is the logical choice to replace Zander as Star Captain,” Akela explained to the men and women assembled. “Cenek, with Lorna commanding the Binary, I am awarding you a field promotion to Star Commander.”

The officers addressed gave their affirmatives.

“I trust these assignments are satisfactory to everyone,” he said, with a tone that hinted at sarcasm. He singled out Gunnar a particularly stern look.

The MechWarrior stared back for a moment, then quickly dropped his gaze.

“Dismissed.” He waved Sigurd over as the other Clanners dispersed. “Bondsman, the technicians are short-handed, so you are to help them load the salvage. We shall be leaving soon.”

“Where are we going?”

As he spoke, there was a distant rumbling. Both men turned, though Akela seemed pleased as he looked up at the sky. A huge spheroid DropShip burned through the atmosphere above them, the fires of its engines bright against the morning light. Everyone stopped for a moment and watched as it landed on the other side of the field, where the terrain was smoothest. The Clan Wolf insignia, blood-red and snarling, stood in stark contrast to the ship's matte grey hull.

Sigurd felt a chill run down his spine as the image stirred something in his memory. It was just out of reach, like a half-remembered nightmare. For the first time since he had come to this planet, he was afraid.

“Something on your mind?” Akela inquired.

Sigurd looked back at him, startled from his thoughts. “No, I—” He shook his head. “I was just thinking.” He traced his fingers over the bondcord unconsciously and went to help the technicians.

Even among the civilian caste-members, Sigurd knew he was not entirely welcome. He was an outsider who was not to be trusted. The technicians did not treat him with the same contempt the warriors did, but they were uncomfortable with his presence. He was given only menial tasks and manual labor, and hardly anyone spoke to him. Fortunately, his work ethic seemed to please them.

He never saw the bondswoman who had asked to speak to him. It was entirely possible, though, that he had simply missed her in the sea of people. There was little time to think of anything else but work, while he helped the techs, and he only remembered her when he was relieved of his duties.

 

* * * * *

 

The next day, things seemed to return to normal for the Clanners. The DropShip returned to orbit for a short time, then landed on a different continent, and everyone resumed their typical schedules. Akela Kerensky expected his bondsman to do the same. Now, Sigurd was about to begin his first assigned task.

He had awakened early, partly to prepare, but mostly because he had not slept very well. The ship's landing during the “night” was one factor. The other disturbance was the creature that had stalked him through his dreams. It was a huge wolven being, like some spawn of Loki, whose body seemed to be made of mist and whose eyes stirred a sense of dread in his bones. He felt certain this beast would be the death of him.

Sigurd hated to dwell on nightmares, though, and tried to shut it out of his mind. Being in the gym made him feel a little better. It was a relatively familiar environment. He was glad to be able to walk barefoot now, too, and not be hampered by the magnet-soled boots required to move about while the ship was in space.

The first thirty minutes of his time went to warming up. When the hour changed, almost on the second, the gym door opened. He stood at attention, ready to greet his trainer.

It was not Elaine who entered. Another woman, quite similar in build, walked into the room. Her eyes were so dark they appeared like onyx, searching and yet serene. Her hair was likewise very dark and cropped at her jaw. It took a moment, but he recognized her as one of the warriors that he and the others had dug out of the hangar's wreckage. Surprisingly, she looked no worse off for it.

“Good morning. I am Mira.” She smiled kindly. “And you are?”

“Bondsman Sigurd.” He watched her carefully. Akela was the most cordial Clanner he had met thus far, and that was almost certainly a personal quirk. This woman's politeness struck him as suspicious.

“Are you ready to begin your training, bondsman?” asked the Elemental. She stretched and then pinned her hair back away from her face.

“I... Yes?” he answered. Then hesitantly, he added, “I was under the impression the Star Captain wished to supervise my training.”

Mira chuckled and shook her head as she stripped down to her athletic suit. “Yes, I suppose she would.” Media in the InnerSphere often depicted these Clan Warriors with the exaggerated physique of bodybuilders, which was not really accurate. Although she was fit, her appearance was quite different—more smooth and solid, and suited to gutting enemy 'Mechs day after day. When she crouched down to untie her boots, though, he could see the muscles in her thighs draw taut, rippling under her skin. “Star Captain Sradac is far too busy, for the time being. We shall begin now, _quiaff_?”

“Aff, ovkhan.”

A wicked grin was Sigurd's only warning before she pounced. A jolt of adrenaline gave him the presence of mind to dart aside and avoid the attack. Mira landed where he had been standing a split second ago; she immediately turned, launching a heavy fist at his head. Reacting on pure muscle memory, he brought one arm up along the inside of hers and pushed outwards, deflecting her fist. As he dodged, he turned and moved closer. Sigurd brought up his left elbow to jab her in the gut, but his strike did not even make her flinch. He tried to sprint away as soon as he realized his mistake. Unfortunately, it was already too late.

Mira grinned again and grabbed him, with one hand under his arm and the other around his ankle, then bodily threw him across the room. Sigurd managed to save himself a little by curling his limbs inward. He rolled back onto his feet as soon as he stopped sliding. By the time he was standing again, she had already closed half the distance between them.

Sigurd bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, ready to move, and spun away as Mira struck at him again. Her height gave her greater reach than he was used to from an opponent, and she quickly landed a punch to his shoulder. Sigurd rolled with it and kicked her hard as she sprang after him again.

She stumbled as his foot slammed into her right knee cap, but recovered quickly. Sigurd had just enough time to dash past her as she stood again, and clamped one hand down on her right wrist. He slid one foot forward and wrapped his leg around hers, and then, following through with the maneuver, threw her to the floor. They landed on the mat with a thump, tangled together, and Sigurd quickly worked to put her in an arm bar.

The Elemental looked a little surprised as Sigurd pulled her arm back tightly. Then she laughed. Mira leaned hard into him, pressing his legs back against his chest. Now leaning over him, she brought her knees up under her body, pressing all her weight down, in order to hold him still. He quickly let go of her arm and snaked his hands away from hers, just in time to bring his arms up over his face. Her fist came down on him like a hammer.

Sigurd exhaled, then mustered all the energy he could and shoved his arms back at her, hitting her in the nose. He did little damage, but she turned her head and, for a moment, the punches stopped. He slipped his arm under one of hers, in front of her throat, and grabbed the shoulder of her jumpsuit. It would not be enough to hold her, but it further distracted her for an instant. He felt her weight shift, and jammed one of his knees into her side.

As Mira pulled away from the blow, Sigurd quickly rolled out from under her and leapt back to his feet. She jumped up after him and landed a kick to the inside of his thigh. As he fell back, one of her fists connected with his jaw. He stumbled back and tried again to recover. Another kick followed, connecting with his chest. He tried to brace himself, but she still knocked the wind out of him.

Then, as suddenly as her attack began, it stopped. Mira laughed and shook her head as she looked down at the comparatively small man in front of her. The biggest Clan MechWarriors were half her size, and Sigurd was not even that large.

“You concede, _quineg_?” she asked, drawing herself up into a more relaxed posture.

Sigurd shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth. “Neg,” he replied firmly. He would not admit weakness.

She scoffed a little, scanning his lean, wiry frame in doubt. “Why?”

“If I stop,” he said, still panting for breath, “I think you will kill me.”

Mira laughed again. “No. No, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it within the first two seconds,” she chuckled. “I could have crushed your skull like a grape.” The look on her face suggested this was not much of an exaggeration.

He only nodded and relaxed his stance cautiously.

“Besides, I am not in the habit of breaking other peoples' toys.” Mira began to gather up her clothes, and slipped on her boots. “I have seen worse fighting from freebirths. We will meet at the same time, tomorrow.” With her judgement rendered, Mira nodded to him and left the gym.

He stayed still until he was quite sure she had left, then fairly collapsed onto the mat. He wondered if Mira intended to teach him any technique, or simply “train” him by letting him figure out for himself how to suffer the least damage. He already ached badly, and she had clearly been going easy on him. Sigurd traced his thumb over the gash in his lip gingerly.

Typically, he did not shy away from his opponents, but he clearly needed more focus on evasion against Elementals. His preferred style of combat was to move in close and go for a killing blow, just as his mother had taught him. Sigurd hung his head and ran his hands through his short hair. He had not thought of her in a long time, and remembering her now made him feel very alone.

He stood and shook the weariness out of his limbs, then began to stretch. Some _kata 1 _ practice would clear his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. kata, n. (Japanese): a set combination of positions and movements (as in karate) performed as an exercise. —Merriam-Webster


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which friends are made.

Chapter 5

 

The Wolves were fighting again, just three days after the mercenaries' attack. This time, the Star Colonel sent one of his subordinate officers to handle the problem. He and the other wounded MechWarriors still needed some time to recover. Although Akela had great confidence in his warriors, there was a clear sense that he would have enjoyed pursuing the mercenaries, himself.

For the most part, Sigurd knew little about the Wolves' movements, except what he observed first-hand. He had far too much work to have time to snoop around. That seemed to be the way Akela liked it. Truthfully, he was not terribly concerned with spying. He was much more interested in the information freely offered to him: the training (or rather sparring) he did with Mira, and the Clan's lore. Currently, he was delving into the latter.

The Remembrance was very, very long and, in his opinion, sounded more like propaganda than history. He wondered if Akela took it for fact, or gave it as required reading for the cultural value. The poetic form at least made it somewhat interesting. A few parts of the epic even surprised him.

 _All praise the art of batchall and bidding/For it proves our love of peace and tradition,_ ” he read aloud. He knew the Clans believed their ways were right, but he had not expected that they believed themselves peaceful, too.

“Some bold lies, there.”

He looked up from the terminal to see the bondswoman he had met a few days ago. She tilted her head a little, trying to see if she had his attention, and tucked a strand of blondish hair behind her ear. After a moment, she sat down at a nearby terminal and popped a disc into the system.

“I would've expected you to find me by now,” she said as she began typing.

“There are a lot of people on this ship,” he muttered, “and I have things to do.”

“For your master, right?” she scoffed. "I didn't think they'd break a MechWarrior so fast.”

Sigurd frowned and decided to ignore her. He didn't owe her anything, and he did not like the accusatory tone she had taken up.

“Those mangy Wolves slaughtered my whole lance,” she persisted. “How many of _your_ friends did they kill?”

He sighed. “What do you want?”

“I think we can help each other. My name's Emma, by the way. Yours?”

“Sigurd. I do not know what you think I can do for you.”

She didn't look at him, but kept at her work. “I overheard a rumor that the commander wants you as a MechWarrior. I... I'll probably never pilot, again. They're pushing me into their Technician Caste.” Emma paused. “On our own, we're nothing. If we work together, though, we might be able to get out of this.”

“Why should I trust you?” he hissed. As soon as he said it, Sigurd realized his response was overly harsh.

“Who else can you trust? Just think about it.”

He logged out of the terminal hastily, and left.

 

 

“You are late, today, bondsman,” Mira scolded as Sigurd entered the gym.

He bowed, as if on reflex. “Forgive me, ovkhan. It will not happen again.”

The Elemental gave him a curious look, but then shook her head and chuckled. “I thought perhaps you had finally had enough.”

Sigurd stripped down to his jumpsuit and kicked off his boots, quickly. “I would not think of it, ovkhan. I appreciate the time you give me.”

“There is no need for flattery.”

Sigurd met her eyes. “I am sincere.” _Just not for the reasons you think._

Mira seemed to consider his words for a moment, then nodded and stood. “As much as I have enjoyed beating you up these past few days, I think it is time for a change of curriculum. I will instruct you in some techniques, today.” She looked him over and frowned, noting the cuts and bruises he had begun to rack up. “You need a break, anyway.”

He nodded and joined her on the mat. Sigurd was not typically eager to please. That was not to say he was purposefully difficult with other people, but he seldom did things only to win someone else's approval. It was not, he thought, a very good reason to act. He decided to make Mira an exception—at least for the time being. She did not seem to hate him as some of the others did, and what she had to teach him could prove invaluable. Anything he could do to stay on her good side would probably be a wise move, at present.

The training this day focused on some grappling techniques, and lasted much longer than the previous days. Of course, that was to be expected, since it usually took less than ten minutes at a time for Mira to lose interest in pummeling him.

“You are pretty good for a freebirth,” she said as they finished.

Sigurd suppressed a smile. It was a substantial upgrade from, “I have seen worse,” a few days ago.

“Your biggest problem,” Mira observed, “is that you think too much when we spar. I can always see it on your face. You think about where I am going to be next. You think about where you should move. You think about what you should do. You need to stop thinking and start _feeling_. You cannot afford the time it takes to _think_.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” It was a fair assessment. He had failed to enact it lately, but knew exactly what Mira was talking about.

He felt it first when he was young. As he trained each day, it often seemed the whole world would melt away, from the hot sand beneath his feet to the painfully blue sky overhead. During these moments, he felt aware of nothing but his own body, moving free from interference of thought or emotion.

Flow, he had heard it called. _Mushin no shin_ , was the Kuritan phrase. _The mind of no mind._

In that state there was no pain, only the buoyancy of his own being. Sigurd would have spent his whole life that way, if he could. Sometimes, he found himself completing minor tasks as if on autopilot, but that was not the same as _mushin_. So often, anger and doubt churned just under the surface of his mind, sabotaging his efforts. It seemed only combat could quiet that restlessness.

He thanked Mira again for her instruction, and began some cool-down stretches as she left.

 

* * * * *

 

The following weeks passed much as the first had. Having reached something of an understanding with his instructor, training became Sigurd's favorite activity. He did not mind the work he did with the technicians, but servicing the 'Mechs only reminded him that he was not piloting one.

Today's work was particularly bittersweet, since he had been assigned to help the astechs with a _Shadow Cat_. He had once seen this nimble 'Mech in the field, and was immediately smitten. It was fleet-footed and agile, two of his favorite qualities in a 'Mech, and the weapons configurations were not bad, either.

Sigurd traced his hand over the armor panel he had just helped replaced on the left leg. It was painted with a snarling wolf's head, like the Clan insignia, with a gold letter “theta” over the throat, and a green star behind the wolf. He looked down at the striping on his bondcord: red-brown for the Clan and green for the Galaxy, with a pale grey denoting the Cluster.

He looked to his left as another tech approached, and quickly realized it was Emma. That was the other reason he disliked this work. Almost anywhere else on the ship, he could avoid her. Sigurd bowed his head as he dug through the toolkit beside him, and pretended not to have noticed her.

“Sorry about the other day,” she said as she crouched down next to him, and opened a nearby access panel. She did not whisper, but kept her voice low enough that no one else would really notice. “I guess I was a little pushy.”

“Mm-hm,” he replied, trying to sound disinterested. It just came out as a growl.

“So, who'd ya piss off?” She started to point at one of his recent bruises, but widened the gesture to his whole face.

“It is from sparring. The rest...” He stopped. “The rest are old.”

She chuckled a little. “You must be the lucky-unlucky type, eh? My dad was the same way. Couldn't open a can of beans without cutting himself, but miraculously survived a cockpit shot.” When Sigurd didn't respond, she nudged his arm lightly. “Hey, lighten up.”

He just grunted again. “I do not know how you think I can help you.”

“Well, right now, you can hand me the rivet gun.” Then, more seriously, she asked, “Don't you at least want someone to talk to? We're the only Spherers here.”

 _That does not make us alike,_ he thought to himself. “And you think they will approve of us hanging around together, _quineg?_ ”

Emma gave him a disgusted look, and he realized what he had said. Sigurd handed her the rivet gun and turned away. The sound of machines and metalwork drowned out any conversation they might have had after that.

 

* * * * *

 

The exchange with Emma bothered him for a long time afterward. Sigurd did not expect to adopt Clan mannerisms so easily, and he wondered what that said about him. It had taken him a long time to adjust to life in the Draconis Combine, yet he began to fall in sync with the Wolves almost without effort. Maybe the language barrier accounted for some of it. He had spoken a German-English creole most of his life, and Japanese had been difficult for him to pick up.

That was not an answer, though, only an excuse. He sighed a little as he continued with his reading. He could hear the real answer whispered in the back of his mind, and he did not like it.

 _They murdered my father, and here I am in the midst of them,_ he thought, bitterly.

He could almost hear his mother's voice in reply.

“Will anger bring him back?” Raisa sighed and laid her hands on his shoulders. “We all one day must die,” he remembered her saying, softly. “Your father died doing something that was important to him.”

He stood up from the terminal and paced a little, starting to feel restless. Her voice had not been so strong in his mind since the days when he was stranded in that forsaken jungle, halfway across the Combine.

Sigurd sighed and sat down, slumping back in the chair. _It must be the stress. It is making me delusional,_ he thought. _Again_.

“Keeping busy?”

Sigurd jerked his head up to see Akela Kerensky staring down at him from the other side of the terminal.

“Star Colonel.” He jumped up from his chair and stood. He was never sure if he should salute, but Akela quickly motioned for him to sit.

“I just came by to see what you have been up to these past few weeks.” He leaned over the terminal to peer at the screen. “Ah, the Political Century. A bit dry,” he lamented. “I am sure you will find Operation: Revival much more interesting.”

“I have completed the Wolf Clan Remembrance,” Sigurd said, “so I began the general Remembrance. Am I, er, to read them all?”

Akela laughed aloud. “No, that is not necessary. Besides, the Falcons' lore would be a punishment I should not wish on anyone.” He chuckled. “I do, however, have something you may find more to your tastes: BattleROMs.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, accepting a data crystal from Akela.

“Now that you have begun to learn our history, I feel you are ready to start learning more about Clan tactics. These are copied from old ROMs, but they should serve as an introductory course. As I am sure you know, the Wolves no longer extend the honor of zellbrigen to InnerSphere forces,” he explained. “We still apply it to intra-Clan warfare, however, so it is best that you learn it now and learn it well. You will be examined on your knowledge later, and mistakes will not be tolerated.”

Sigurd nodded. “Aff, ovkhan.”

Akela looked pleased with that, and departed.

It seemed his patience was starting to pay off. He realized that “old” was Akela's way of implying “tactically inconsequential.” He would learn nothing from the footage that could hurt the Wolves. Regardless, it was a positive gesture.

Sigurd was genuinely intrigued to see first-hand how Clan MechWarriors operated in battle. At the moment, though, he was mostly eager for a change from his usual assignment. He inserted the data crystal into the terminal and relaxed as it began to play.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Akela has questions.

Chapter 6

 

“Happy decanting day,” a male voice said over the comm.

“What?”

“Today is your birth-day, _quiaff_?”

The female pilot muttered a _harumph_ as her hands worked over the 'Mech's controls. Then, to her comrade, she said, “I think I shall like this machine.” The silhouette on the HUD revealed it as the 'Mech Sigurd had learned to call a _Timber Wolf_. “I cannot fathom why you requested an _Adder_ over one of these.”

“You favor power. I favor cunning,” her unseen comrade replied. Upon hearing him again, Sigurd began to recognize the voice. It was a little different in the recording—a bit less bass and a bit more energetic—but it was definitely Akela Kerensky.

The _Timber Wolf_ pilot chuckled and finalized her control configurations. “Of course you do,” she drolled. “Big fox.”

Akela gave an audible sigh of irritation over the comm. “Good hunting, sibkin.” Then, a little quieter, “Be careful.”

“Aff.” The MechWarrior pressed down on the throttle, and loped over the ridge into the valley where her Blooding would begin. “And my birth-day was two days ago!” she chided.

Sigurd smiled faintly to himself. There was something peculiar about glimpsing Akela this way—not as an officer but an unBlooded cadet, not a calculating Clan warrior but a young man jesting with his sibling. It didn't seem quite real.

He looked up from the screen as he saw Emma walk in. This was the first time he had run into her since their last conversation, and if she noticed him now, she made no effort to draw his attention. Sigurd drummed his fingers on the side of the terminal, feeling suddenly and inexplicably guilty. He paused the video and walked over to her as she sat down.

“Afternoon.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked up at him, and she arched her eyebrows. It was a look that suggested she was waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth.

“We always seem to start off badly,” he said. He kept his voice low, to avoid disturbing the other people in the room. “That is... mostly my fault, I think.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment, then smiled. “Forget about it. Hard to be at your best in times like this, eh? Let's have a proper introduction.” She extended a hand. “Emma Fraser, Gamma lance leader, Traion planetary militia.”

“Sigurd Volsung.” He shook her hand and sat down beside her. “Um, reinforcement MechWarrior, I suppose.”

“Oh! You're the guy MacGuire brought on, aren't ya? The one who was disp—” Her cheeks flushed a little in embarrassment at the misstep.

Sigurd shrugged as she cut herself off mid-sentence. “Dispossessed? You can say it.”

“Heh, I know it's touchy for a lot of people,” she said, and resumed her work. “So, uh, anyway... What made you decide to talk to me?”

He tugged at his bondcord idly. “I realized you were right,” he conceded. “I could use someone to talk to.” _Someone to hold me to the ground._

 

* * * * *

 

Work on the 'Mechs became more pleasant once he and Emma were on amiable terms. In order to avoid suspicion, they did not deliberately seek each other out, but they did chat whenever their work brought them together. Sigurd felt he was able to relax around her somewhat, although he often had pangs of guilt when he said something particularly Clanlike without thinking. Fortunately, Emma no longer gave him grief over it. She would sometimes cringe, but otherwise seemed to accept that it was the part he must play for his own survival.

Sometimes, they talked about their previous lives. Those conversations tended to be rather one-sided. The more Sigurd heard of Emma's family, the less comfortable he became in speaking of his own. He was not entirely sure why. Still, he did not mind simply listening. She was an entertaining storyteller.

Most of their conversations, however, centered on shop talk or whatever task was at hand. Emma clearly did not relish the idea of being an astech, but she had a natural aptitude for the work and was glad to explain anything new that she learned. Sigurd was always glad for the lessons on Clan technology. If he hoped to pilot an OmniMech, he felt it best to know as much as he could.

He was not yet ready to call Emma his friend, but he enjoyed her company. Most of all, he had begun to dread solitude. When he was younger, he liked being alone with his own thoughts. Now, they only betrayed him.

He thought often of things he had tried to forget: about his old unit, about Virentofta. His dreams were getting worse, too. They were more vivid, and the nightmare wolf seemed omnipresent; some nights, it even spoke to him. The words were always in his native tongue, but he could never remember them in the morning. It left him feeling cold when he woke.

Sigurd shivered a little and sighed as he dressed. He had no time to worry about such things. Mira had given him a bit of a break lately, in order to focus on technique. Of course, it was only a “break” in the sense that she was not throwing him around the room for the entire duration of his training. The work was no less difficult. Today would almost certainly be a return to sparring, and she should expect him to be at his best.

“ _Don't think_ ,” he said aloud, to remind himself. _No thinking, only doing. No mind, only body._

When he arrived at the gym, however, she was not there. The room was not empty, though; there were MechWarriors training at the far end of the room. One, a blond-haired man, held a punching bag while his companion pummeled it. Sigurd recognized the first as Cenek. The other, as luck would have it, was Gunnar.

“Bondsman,” Cenek called, jerking his head in a _come here_ motion.

Sigurd eyed the two warily, but approached. Gunnar kept hitting the punching bag with his good arm, and paid him no mind. His other arm was still in a cast that came just below his elbow, but he held it in a defensive position, nonetheless.

“Yes, Star Commander?” Sigurd queried.

Cenek smiled, perhaps involuntarily, at the address. He was clearly enjoying his promotion.

Gunnar pulled back and kicked the bag, which caught his comrade unawares.

“Pay attention,” he demanded.

“Pay attention, _ovkhan_ ,” Cenek corrected him as he regained his balance. He shoved the punching bag back at Gunnar, then turned towards the bondsman. “Mira asked that I tell you she is otherwise occupied, today. She also said the Star Colonel wishes to see you.”

Sigurd nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“A Star Commander relaying messages to bondsmen? Have you nothing better to do, trothkin?” Gunnar snorted, putting in a few more punches. He turned to Sigurd and grinned. It was the sort of smile one might expect of a cat watching an oblivious mouse, if cats could smile. “Since you have so much free time, why not stay here and train with us? Surely, Mira intends for _someone_ to smack you around, while she is gone.”

“A MechWarrior beating up bondsmen?” Cenek mocked. “Have you nothing better to do?”

“Shut up,” the dark-haired man hissed.

“Shut up, _ovkhan_ ,” Cenek corrected, again. “If you are going to be insubordinate, at least do it properly.”

Gunnar growled and punched the bag again, hard, which sent it swinging at his comrade. “I should have been named Star Commander, and you know it.”

“Well, you were _not_ promoted, and I was.” Cenek laughed as he ducked aside.

“It was a field promotion, and it may not stand. I have more kills than you. I am the better MechWarrior.”

“You have more kills, but that is hardly the whole measure of a warrior. This is the second time you have been passed over. Face it, trothkin, you are simply not command material.”

“Shut up, Cenek.”

Sigurd backed away as the two continued to bicker. They seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, and it was best to leave before they remembered. He did not need any trouble, today.

 

 

As he approached the Star Colonel's office, Sigurd could faintly hear a conversation from inside the room. The door was open by just a hair's breadth. He began to knock, but hesitated, unsure if he should interrupt.

“Admit it,” an unfamiliar voice taunted. “Your hubris has finally gotten the better of you. If I were in your position, Star Colonel, I would dispense with this puzzle entirely, and _kill him_.”

“That is your answer to almost everything, ovkhan,” Akela Kerensky muttered.

“Aff. Because it almost always works.”

Akela gave a snort of derision. “You are being too hasty.”

“You are acting too slowly. You have given him too much latitude, and you are too slow to enforce your authority. This is your own fault, Akela. If you had not been so tolerant, your bondsman would not have deceived you.”

Sigurd stepped back from the door. He did not like where this was going, but decided to stay and listen.

“Patience, ovkhan. Unless you care to take the matter to Trial, I have the right to do with him as I wish. Given time, I believe I can—”

“Do what? Make him into a dog to roll over on your command? Do not waste your time trying to teach this _freebirth_ the way of the Clans. He will not accept it. Spherers are too individualistic, too independent. It is better to rid yourself of him, now.”

“I am not wasting my time,” Akela maintained. His voice grew a little sterner, but he held his tone even. “I think that, with the right training, he could be a good asset. Already, he is learning to keep pace with our own warriors.”

“You dare compare this _freebirth_ to Wolf trueborns?!” his superior snapped. “Star Colonel, you disgust me!”

“I would remind you, ovkhan, that dismissing freeborns out of hand has proven ill-advised for our people.”

For a moment, there was silence. Likely, the gap in the two Wolves' conversation was bridged by a staring contest. Sigurd got the impression this was no longer a debate between officers, but an argument between two people who had known each other too well, for too long.

Finally, there was an angry grumble from the other party. “I fail to understand the point of this little experiment,” the more senior officer muttered, rather quietly, “but do as you wish. Go ahead—hang yourself with your own rope. Just remember that I will not cut you down from the gallows, when you do.”

The comm fell abruptly silent after that.

Sigurd leaned back against the wall and clenched his fists. For a moment, he felt as though he could barely breathe. He had tried to be careful, to play along, and he had failed. He tried to think of what he had done to reveal himself, and how he might still escape.

“You can come in, now, Sigurd.” He turned his head to see Akela standing in the doorway, suddenly. The man frowned, but only slightly. “I was given to understand that eavesdropping is considered quite rude.”

Sigurd said nothing, and followed him back into the office. His bondholder closed the door behind them, securely this time.

The Star Colonel took a seat and began typing something into his computer. “You lied to me,” he said. His tone of voice almost reminded Sigurd of a parent. It was the kind of tone that said, _I'm not mad, I'm just _disappointed _in you.___

____

The bondsman remained silent, trying to decide how to respond. He knew refusing to respond or denying things would only make the situation worse, but so would admitting more than they already knew.

__

Akela did not give him much time. “What is your name?”

__

“What?”

__

“Simple question, bondsman,” Akela said, a growl creeping into his voice.

__

“Sigurd Volsung,” he replied, perplexed.

__

The Star Colonel looked up, and turned the computer monitor around for him to see. “I am inclined to believe otherwise.”

__

The monitor displayed an abstract of an MRBC personnel file. Sigurd furrowed his brow, very surprised and a little confused. The dossier listed his name, his BattleMech and his unit, along with a brief outline of his assignments. The portrait accompanying it was his, but it was a face he had not seen in the mirror for a long time. Overlaid on the portrait, in red block font, were the letters “KIA.”

__

This was not the sort of confrontation he expected to have. It relieved him that he was not being accused of outright treachery. He almost would have preferred to have _that_ conversation. It infuriated him to even think about his former unit.

__

“Either you are Sigurd Volsung, misidentified as dead, and you have lied about being a mercenary,” the Clansman said, “or you are not Sigurd Volsung, and you have lied about your identity.”

__

“I did not lie to you,” he answered quietly. He thought if he spoke calmly, he might be able to trick himself into actually being calm. “I _am_ Sigurd Volsung, and I am _not_ a mercenary.”

__

“Explain.”

__

Sigurd took the Star Colonel's brevity as a sign that his patience was wearing thin.

__

“I was a mercenary, _once_.” The words stung as he spoke. “I was young and very foolish. I thought joining a merc company would get me what I wanted. That was a long time ago.”

__

Akela tilted his head a little. “You changed your mind, _quiaff?_ ”

__

He nodded. “We were on a scouting mission to track down some Smoke Jaguar bandits who survived their Clan's annihilation. The Jaguars found us first. When they attacked, my lancemates sacrificed me to save their own hides,” he said bitterly. “They left me to die in that rotting jungle.”

__

“Hm.” Akela seemed to consider this information for a moment. “Have you any evidence to support your claims?”

__

“I—” Sigurd changed his mind and shook his head. He had evidence, (his BattleMech), but it was rusting out at the bottom of a swamp. “No. I have only my word.”

__

“You understand that is not worth very much to me, right now, quiaff?” Akela stood. “Because I am a very generous soul, I shall again offer you two options. Your first option is to submit to chemical interrogation.”

__

Sigurd felt his skin crawl at the mere thought of it, and his heart pounded in his chest. _No! No, not again. Not_ ever _again..._

__

“If you are able to give the same version of events and answer all questions satisfactorily during the interrogation, then we shall put this whole matter behind us. It will be as if this never happened.”

__

He became suddenly cold, and tried hard not to shiver in fear. Now, more than ever, he did not want to show weakness. “What is the other option?” he asked, feeling a sense of déjà vu. He already knew he would like this answer even less than the first.

__

“If you choose not to submit to interrogation, then I shall make you someone else's problem. Maybe I will release you into the service of the Clan, in some capacity where you cannot cause any trouble. Or perhaps I will let another warrior take you as their bondsman, and do with you as they will.” He flashed an unexpectedly cruel smile. “You and Gunnar would get along well, I imagine.”

__

__

__


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which memories are revisited.

Chapter 7

 

“How do you feel?” asked the medtech.

“Fine.”

Sigurd looked down at the floor, and tried to steady his breathing. To say that he lied was an understatement. His knuckles were white and he could feel his nails biting into his own palms, but he could not manage to open his fists. His heart beat hard and fast, pounding in his ears like a taiko rhythm.

“Your blood pressure is very high...” The medtech looked down at the readout on her pocket computer, which was gathering data from the sensors pasted to Sigurd's skin.

“I am fine,” he mumbled. It was becoming less convincing every time he said it. “Just... just start.”

The medic looked him over and frowned. She was a lot nicer than the medics who had treated his wounds after capture, but her attitude hardly made a difference to him at the moment. It was difficult not to feel a little standoffish with someone who had just pumped him full of drugs.

“You will start feeling groggy, soon. You may lose your sense of balance,” she explained. “That is normal. Just remain seated, and try to relax. The warriors will begin asking you questions, and I will be here to monitor you, in case you feel ill.” She put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly and smiled. “It will all be over soon.”

Sigurd pushed her hand away clumsily. Already, he was starting to lose his coordination, and it frightened him.

The medtech frowned sympathetically, then turned to the warriors who stood behind the glass in the adjacent room. “You may begin,” she announced, and moved to join them.

“State your name for the record,” the first instructed.

“Sigurd Volsung.”

“What is your homeworld?”

He hesitated, but the answer tumbled out. “Rotwelt.”

“Date of— _Ugh_.” The second Wolf gave a visible shudder. “Date of _birth?_ ” He said it as if the word tasted bad.

“November...” he began. “November 6th, 30... Uhm, 3050.”

“What is the name of your father?”

“Kurt Volsung.”

“What is the name of your mother?”

“Raisa Slate Volsung.”

“What is your occupation?”

“MechWarrior.” He answered that one quickly, in spite of the depressant.

“Are you a mercenary?”

“No!”

“Were you previously employed as a mercenary?”

He hesitated again.

“Were you _ever_ a mercenary?” the warrior repeated, harsher.

“Yes.” His mouth spoke the word, but he felt certain he had not given it permission to do so.

“During what dates?”

Sigurd stared down at the floor. The pattern on it was starting to squirm and contort. He felt... hot. He realized he was starting to sweat, but his skin was cold to the touch.

“Answer the question, freebirth!” one of the inquisitors barked, slamming her hands against the glass separating them.

Sigurd jerked his head up and promptly lost his balance as he tried to lean away from her. He tumbled out of the chair, onto the floor, and scrambled to pick himself up. His vision was starting to swim, and he felt as if he was sinking. Although the floor was metal, it seemed to move under him like sand.

“He... He doesn't look well,” the medtech noted. “I suggest we take a break, and—”

“We will continue the questioning,” interrupted one of the MechWarriors. “And watch your _language_ , civilian.”

“During what time were you employed as a mercenary?” asked the other.

“I do not... do not... _erinnere_...” He pushed himself up, much to his own surprise, and grabbed onto the edge of the table. “What was the question?”

The two warriors exchanged frustrated glances. “Why did you come to Traion?”

Sigurd managed to stand, but kept holding onto the table. He felt too wobbly on his own feet, and his head was pounding. The sensation was very familiar; all of it was, in fact. Someone had asked him these questions before. He could not remember if he replied, but he knew something bad would happen if he did not give the correct answer.

The warriors became less and less distinct, until they eventually seemed like little more than blurry silhouettes. The first blur frowned. “Let us try a more straight-forward question. What kind of BattleMech do you pilot?”

“A _Dervish_.”

“You lie! You were captured in an _Archer,_ ” the other growled. Their voices seemed quite clear, but the words made increasingly little sense. “Give him another dose, or whatever it is you do. He is clearly not drugged enough.”

“I— I have a _Dervish_ , though...” Sigurd shuddered as a chill washed over him. He felt like he was going to be sick.

A third figure intervened. This one was smaller and more soft-spoken than the other two. “I do not think he is lying. The graph did not spike,” she said. “He seems confused.”

“It is a simple question.”

“He is answering it. He must have forgotten about the _Archer_.” Her voice grew a little firmer, but not by much. “His heart rate is very high. This... this is not typical.”

“ _We_ will decide when to stop,” interrupted the first blur. “He will continue to answer our questions.”

His vision was getting worse and his head swam, now. There was information coming in, but he could not parse it. Still, he knew what would happen next. Once they finished interrogating him, they would kill him as slowly and painfully as they could. Sigurd lost his balance as panic seized him, and fell to the ground again. He would be killed. Everyone and everything was trying to kill him.

At the same time, his body ceased to feel like his own. It was as if he was suddenly outside his own skin, aware of his movements but unable to control them. Even those movements were becoming harder to control, or even recall. Every now and then, his mind would _blink_ , and he would suddenly find that he had moved. He had no memory of completing these actions or even considering them. One moment he was sitting at the table, and the next, he sat crouched on the floor, on the other side of the small room from the blurry things. The gap between movements could have been seconds or it could have been hours. He was vaguely aware of speaking—perhaps answering more questions. However, the disconnect with his body was too great to really know what he was doing or why.

Sigurd tried to piece together why he was here. He had been in the jungle, scouting with his lance for the Jaguars. Of that, he was certain. He tried to latch onto the details and fit them together. He had a _Dervish_ , but what had his lancemates piloted? They were swift, he knew. There was a _Jenner_ and _Locust_.

 _No_ , he thought to himself. _No, one was slow... A_ Panther! _Ace drove that one._

He remembered the way the underbrush exploded as the Smoke Jaguars burst from cover and attacked them. They were only the scraps left over after the second Star League crushed that brutal Clan years ago, but they were angry, and even their poorest equipment outmatched his own. There was never supposed to be a fight. His lance was only meant to search for their camp.

He remembered ordering the others back. They could not win a fight, but they could run. The dense jungle might protect them just long enough to lose the Clanners. The _Panther_ was sluggish, though, and the Jaguars were closing in quickly. Sigurd remembered feeling his heart jump into his throat, and going _forward_. He could hold their attention just long enough for his friend to disappear into the brush. He let the bandits chase him, moving farther away from the rest of his unit.

Then he heard the engines. The Jaguars closed in, and he watched as the DropShip, with all of his lancemates aboard, abandoned him. It did not take long for his 'Mech to fall under the Clanners' guns.

He remembered being pulled out of the cockpit, being held down, and drugged. He remembered the terrible visions that followed. He remembered being imprisoned and drugged again, being questioned, and beaten when he did not answer. He remembered escaping his bonds. And he remembered killing the MechWarrior who tried to stop him.

Sigurd felt something warm against his cheek. He reached up to touch it, and realized it was someone's hand. He inhaled sharply as his nerves jolted awake. The Jaguars were here, come to kill him. He still felt a rushing sensation in his head, but there was no time to worry about that. He thrust his arm forward as he sat up, fingers curling around his assailant's throat, and threw them to the ground.

“Stop!” a woman's voice croaked as his hands closed on her. “Sigurd! Sigurd, stop!”

His vision adjusted right as her foot connected with his sternum. Sigurd tumbled back, and Emma scrambled away from him. She coughed and put her own hand to her throat gingerly, panting for air. Emma looked back at him, wild-eyed with shock.

“Sigurd...” she gasped. “What the _hell_...”

He stood quickly and backed up, looking around. There was no jungle, and no Jaguar warriors. He was back in his shared quarters on the Wolf ship, where he had been lying in bed. “I— I did not...” He shook his head and wavered a little on his feet. “There was— I thought you were someone else. I'm sorry.”

There was a long silence while each of them tried to get their bearings.

“What the hell did they do to you?” she muttered.

Sigurd sat down on his bunk. Emma stood, hesitated a moment, then sat down on the bunk opposite his—well out of arm's reach.

“They... interrogated me,” he said slowly as he began to remember.

“With _what_?” She shook her head. “I heard something happened to you, but... God, you're a wreck.”

Sigurd glanced over at the shiny metal door to get a look at his reflection. Her assessment was, unfortunately, quite accurate.

“They interrogated me, too, when I was captured,” she continued, “but it didn't feel any worse than being a bit drunk. And it certainly didn't make me try to kill anyone.”

“I think... The medtech said I had a bad reaction?” He bowed his head and laced his fingers together behind his neck.

Emma frowned. “What did they want out of you, anyway?”

He sighed deeply. “There was an, um, error. In their intelligence,” he explained. “The Star Colonel thought I had lied to him.”

“So, they tortured you because of _their_ mistake?” She stood and began to pace around the small room. “We need to get out of here. Soon.”

Sigurd shook his head. “Neg— I mean, no. It is not that simple.” He sighed again, starting to feel an ache in his arm at the injection site. “They are suspicious of me, now. I have to win back Akela's trust.”

“Have you been paying attention to anything that's happened to you? It's a one-way street,” she snapped. “Kerensky wants you to trust him, but he will never trust you. He's _using_ you.”

“What on earth for?” Sigurd rubbed his arms, trying to warm up. “I am not some noble's heir or a high-value capture. My only usefulness is as a MechWarrior.” He frowned, irritated by the way Emma was talking to him. He was not so obtuse as to believe that the Star Colonel acted from the goodness of his heart.

“And why would he want you as a MechWarrior, when the Clan has thousands of them? Probably—I dunno—millions! He must want something else out of you.” She gave him an entreating look. “We need to get out while we can. Things are only gonna get worse from here.”

“Not yet. I just...” he trailed off, bowing his head. “Not yet.”

Emma sighed. “I need to get back to the hangar before anyone misses me.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an opportunity arises.

Chapter 8

 

The interrogation left Sigurd feeling shaken. He had been so vulnerable, unable to control even his own body. He had always been taught to stand up to a challenge, to get on his feet and fight when pushed, to endure. But how could he fight a chemical? He knew logically that he could not resist it, and yet, he still felt ashamed for his failure to do so.

Mostly, he felt a little paranoid. It could have been the drugs. He remembered a constant feeling of being watched for the better part of a week, after he escaped the Jaguars. For days, he felt like he was being followed through the jungle. It was not a sense that the ex-Clanners were tracking him. It was as though some _thing_ was just behind him each step of the way, always lurking at the edge of his vision.

He felt a little of that, now. It came in flashes, as though he had just missed glancing something from the corner of his eye. He would stop and turn around, only to find he was completely alone in a corridor. And he still felt that there was something with him.

Hesitant though he was to admit it to himself, part of the fear—maybe even most of it—was innately his own. This bothered Sigurd greatly. Anger, hatred, anything would be better than fear. He was, of course, upset that Akela had ordered this done to him, but he could not muster the outrage he might have felt a few months ago.

He had tried to pick his battles carefully since his capture. This time, he had chosen poorly.

“Spanner, please.” Emma nudged him, bringing him back to the present.

“Hm? Oh, yes.” He handed it over to her and frowned. “Sorry, I just... I keep drifting off.”

She frowned, but it was a worried rather than reproachful look. “You feelin' okay? Maybe you should go to the infirmary and—”

“No!” He looked away as quickly as he spoke. “I— I will be fine.”

Sigurd stood and climbed further up the side of the _Shadow Cat_. The access panel he needed to get into had been partially covered by melted armor. It would have to be cut open and, being a bondsman, he was not permitted access to the plasma cutters. He moved on to the next panel, drilled out the rivets, and started inspecting the machine's guts.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Emma asked.

That took him a little by surprise. “Hm? Why do you ask?”

She chuckled. “Uh, because it's a thing people ask each other? You know, friendly conversation?”

He had to think about the question. “Martial arts, I suppose?”

“I don't think that really counts for soldiers.”

“I do it in my free time, though.”

“Which just makes you a workaholic,” she quipped. “You should get a hobby.”

“I will sign up for an underwater knitting course immediately,” he replied. “Can you give me a hand with this shoulder actuator?”

Emma chuckled. “I knew you had a sense of humor.” She climbed up beside him. Rather than assisting, however, she took over the work entirely. It was just as well. He balled his fists a little, trying to quell the faint tremors running down his arms and into his fingers. Emma's hands were much more steady than his were of late.

Many MechWarriors considered technicians beneath them, and in the Clans, that was strictly enforced by social hierarchy. Sigurd did not feel such contempt for techs or their work, and watching Emma tuning the actuator so expertly impressed him, but this was certainly not the profession for him. He was meant to be piloting these machines, and every fiber of his being ached with that knowledge. Sighing, he climbed back down from the 'Mech to retrieve more tools.

As he reached the catwalk, Sigurd felt himself bristle at the sense of someone approaching. He turned around swiftly.

“Star Colonel.”

Akela smiled pleasantly and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have an assignment for you, bondsman.” He wasted no time on small talk, today.

Emma, meanwhile, glared daggers into the Clansman's head from above. She seemed uninterested in becoming part of the discussion, and moved to inspect another panel.

“Aff, ovkhan,” Sigurd replied evenly, trying not to react to her expression. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, it is not for me, though.” Akela motioned for Sigurd to follow him, and the two men walked out of the hangar into the adjacent corridor. “One of my subordinates has requested additional personnel for his next mission. At this time, I cannot spare any of my warriors from their assignments. However, Mira has expressed confidence in your combat abilities,” he said. “Therefore, I am temporarily assigning you to Point Commander Jay. He will brief you further. Meet him in the hangar tomorrow at 08:00 hours.”

Surprised by the relative magnitude of the assignment, words failed Sigurd. Whatever it was, he guessed it to be more than a few rungs up the ladder of Clan society from drilling out rivets. It was especially surprising after the interrogation. He had not expected his bondholder's promise of forgive-and-forget to be so sincere.

“I am... honored to serve the Clan,” he responded, finally.

Akela smiled at that, and departed.

 

* * * * *

 

“Bondsman Sigurd reporting.” Sigurd stood back from the little crowd of armored infantry and snapped a Clan-style salute.

“So, you are the little freebirth that the Star Colonel decided to send along,” said one through his external speaker. The armored warrior strode forward. “I am Point Commander Jay. Today, you may consider me an avatar of sorts for the Star Colonel. You will obey my orders as if they were his, and you will obey without question. You understand this, _quiaff_?”

“Aff, Point Commander.”

“Good,” Jay said. “You are to stay with the technicians at all times, unless otherwise instructed by myself or another Clan warrior. Ideally, you will report any threats to myself or the nearest warrior. However, I never expect missions to be ideal. If there is immediate danger, you are to neutralize the threat by whatever means necessary. We must remain undetected.

“Understand all that, _freebirth?_ ” he asked, leaning closer.

“Aff.” Sigurd felt himself bristle faintly, but kept his expression neutral.

Jay held the claw of his suit just in front of Sigurd's face and snapped it shut loudly. “Do not try anything foolish.”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd followed the technicians out of the APC as it came to a halt by the dilapidated hangar. The last light of sunset had just faded over the distant mountain ridges in this region, and the air had grown thick with fog. Ahead, faintly illuminated by the second APC's lights, Jay made short work of the personnel door. Surprisingly, he managed to fit himself through it without scraping the paint off his armor.

“Fan out,” he instructed his Warriors. Then, to the techs, he said, “Move quickly. I want those 'Mechs online as soon as possible.”

Sigurd looked around and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The hangar currently housed three bedraggled-looking OmniMechs: a _Fire Moth_ prime, a _Kit Fox_ prime and a _Stormcrow A_ -configuration. While these chassis had certainly seen better days, they still looked monstrous to anyone on foot. He wondered how the Clanners planned to retrieve them. The fastest way to get the machines back would, of course, be to simply pilot them out.

As he weaved past the techs, he noticed a flash of movement in one of the shadowed corners of the hangar. One of the office doors, which had been closed, now stood ajar. This was no figment. He knew what Jay had told him, but the Elementals were on the other side of the hangar. Sigurd sprinted after the wisp of motion.

When he opened the door, he was greeted with a wrench flying towards his head. He dropped down to evade, and darted forward. The man who had thrown it gave a strangled yelp as Sigurd leapt at him, and scrambled for the communications console.

He managed to mash the “talk” button as the bondsman yanked him back. “Becker!” he yelped.“ _Die 'Mechs! Senden—_ ”

Sigurd pulled him away by the wrist and slammed his knee into the man's back. “ _Schwieg_ ,” he hissed, looping his arm around the man's neck in a stranglehold.

By this time, Jay had arrived. “What is going on?” he demanded. He seemed disinclined to squeeze through such a small door again, and only leaned in.

“I found one of the mercenaries' crewmen.” Sigurd turned, shoving the man towards the commander.

As the crewman scrambled to get up from the floor, Jay grazed the barrel of his gun arm along the man's head. It looked like a light tap, but knocked the unfortunate merc out cold.

“Cana?” the comm crackled. “ _Sind Sie in Ordnung? Antworte, bitte._ ”

The bondsman looked over his shoulder at the console and frowned. “Dammit.”

“Did you understand that?”

“Yes. They want a response, but—”

“Then respond.”

Sigurd put his hands up defensively. “Neg, you do not understand. I do not—

“Now!” the Elemental barked.

Sigurd cleared his throat and tried to drop his voice an octave to match the merc crewman's, and grabbed the comm. Perhaps the poor signal quality would make them sound sufficiently alike. “ _Ja_ , ah, _verzeihung, Becker. Alles ist g— ist jetz gut,_ ” he said haltingly, his focus split between replying, affecting a Lyran accent, and trying to muddle his way into the neighborhood of proper German grammar. “ _Ich bin gut. Danke. Ah... wie geht's du?_ ” He winced.

“... _Was?_ ” came the hesitant reply. Over the crackle of static, they could hear the serene voice of a BattleMech's computer.

“ _Sie sind gehen. Bleibst wo du bist,_ ” he replied quickly, then silenced the comm.

Jay glowered. “What did you just say to them?”

“Hopefully, I told them that everything is fine. More likely, I just sounded like an idiot. They probably suspect something is wrong, anyway.” He frowned and pointed to the man lying on the floor. “This one said something about 'the 'Mechs' earlier, and started to tell his comrade to send... something. I think he was talking to a MechWarrior in the area.”

Jay moved out of the doorway and turned to face into the hangar. He seemed to be conversing with his subordinates over his internal comms. “Bondsman,” he said, turning to face Sigurd again. “Take the _Fire Moth_ and scout out the area. If you encounter enemy units, report them and _distract_ them.”

“Point Commander?”

“You heard me.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” Sigurd felt his heart skip a beat. He might have thought he was dreaming, if not for the fact that he only had nightmares of late.

“The next APC will arrive soon. When it does, you will return to the hangar and switch out with one of the _real_ MechWarriors.” Jay reached through the door and grabbed a cooling vest off the coat rack inside the office, then shoved it at Sigurd roughly. “Remember, freebirth: no tricks.”

He nodded, then bolted back into the hangar and up the catwalk, past some of the techs. “Are the 'Mech's controls unlocked?” Sigurd asked one of them as he stripped down to his jumpsuit and donned the cooling vest.

“Yes. Why?”

“Point Commander's orders,” he explained hurriedly, and hopped into the cockpit.

Sigurd noted with some dissatisfaction that he had neglected to keep his hair as close-cropped as he should. Once he put the neurohelmet on, however, he realized it would not be an issue. The sensor points were much smaller than those found in Inner Sphere models, and fit against his skin perfectly. The entire helmet, in fact, was much smaller and lighter. He plugged it in quickly.

A faint energy surged throughout his body as he brought the 'Mech online, beginning at his temples and running down his spine. It faded almost immediately, but he felt an odd-yet-familiar sense of satisfaction afterwards. He finished the start-up procedures and carefully approached the door.

While he preferred medium or heavy 'Mechs, this would have to do. Even undamaged, a _Fire Moth's_ armor offered little more protection than rice paper and positive thinking. His only real aegis would be the OmniMech's incredible speed. He throttled up steadily as the hangar doors opened.

Once outside, he pressed down harder on the throttle. The _Fire Moth_ took off like a gunshot. Sigurd let up, a little surprised by the sudden speed-rush he felt. It was going to take a lot of concentration to pilot this machine correctly.

Sigurd gently nudged the 'Mech up to a cruising speed. Its velocity was more manageable now that he was prepared. He just had to remember not to floor the throttle, again. As he strode out into the open, he switched his sensor overlay to magscan, looking for anything that might indicate an enemy presence.

Soon enough, he spotted one of the mercenaries. A solitary WLF-2 had come to investigate the situation. It wasn't much bigger than Sigurd's borrowed _Fire Moth_ , but it was far deadlier.

 _At least if I die, now, I will die on my feet,_ he thought, with a laugh. Sigurd opened the comm. “Point Commander, I have visual on a mercenary _Wolfhound_ , inbound on your position. It appears to be alone. Over.”

“Aff. Occupy its attention as long as you can! The MechWarriors will arrive soon. Out.” There was a note of irritability in Jay's voice. This time, however, it did not seem directed at Sigurd.

The _Wolfhound_ turned as he deliberately crossed its line of sight. Sigurd ran at it, then turned away suddenly, acting as though he was surprised to discover it. There was a sparse grove of trees at his 3 o'clock, and he bolted for them. That seemed to be convincing enough for the _Wolfhound_ pilot. The 'Mech turned and throttled up after him, but not too closely. The pilot was probably expecting to finish him off with its ER large laser.

Sure enough, a beam sliced through the trees, close to the _Fire Moth's_ wounded arm. Bark splintered away and a few branches came down from the canopy, but his 'Mech was untouched. Sigurd slowed a little as he entered the woods, and turned to face the direction he had come from. He could make out the _Wolfhound's_ silhouette on the mag scan. It stood for a moment, then paced cautiously in front of the trees. Sigurd backed up slowly, moving carefully through one of the thicker parts of the grove.

Suddenly, the mercenary charged at him, ripping into the trees with its array of medium lasers. The pilot was clearly hoping to land a lucky shot or flush him out. Unfortunately, it was working. Sigurd put a few more trees between himself and the merc, but some of the _Wolfhound's_ shots landed far too close for comfort, and he darted out into the open. It wasted no time, and turned to track him.

As the enemy 'Mech opened fire again, he activated the _Fire Moth's_ MASC, racing out of its firing arc. Sigurd slammed the throttle down to null, tightening his turn as much as possible. He swooped past the _Wolfhound_ and twisted to face it, lashing out with both of his lasers. One shot grazed the other 'Mech's back, but only enough to char its paint.

The _Wolfhound_ turned and fired at him, missing again. He could sense the frustration of its pilot in the way it moved. It attacked once more and then, failing to hit him, turned towards the hangar. The _Wolfhound_ throttled up, having decided he was not worth its attention.

Sigurd narrowed his eyes and chased after it. He rushed past the other BattleMech, zigzagging to disrupt its aim, and blistered its armor with his lasers. The hits were light, and more annoyance than anything, but it worked to his purpose.

In fact, it worked too well. The _Wolfhound_ came to a complete stop, in open defiance of his attacks, and fired. Its ER large laser sliced through the _Fire Moth's_ left arm, severing the damaged limb entirely. Sigurd leaned hard in the same direction, pressing his back into the command couch as he tried to keep his OmniMech upright. He stumbled, but managed to correct in time to save himself from falling.

“ _Scheisse_ ,” Sigurd hissed aloud, and pressed down on the throttle before the merc could tag him again. He returned fire, but his shots went wide. He cursed again, and tried to keep the targeting reticule steady as he raced past the _Wolfhound_. At least he had succeeded in holding its attention, for the time being.

The two light 'Mechs danced around each other. Sigurd quickly discovered he could literally run circles around it, and tried to stay in its rear arc as much as possible. One of the WLF-2's medium lasers was rear-mounted, so he was still vulnerable from that position, and the merc pilot was keen to remind him of it. Still, it was better than staring down the barrel of its big gun.

That continued for awhile longer as Sigurd kept harassing the opposing 'Mech. Inevitably, though, the pilot tired of their game. The _Wolfhound_ fired a warning shot to push him back, then turned and thundered across the field towards the hangar.

“Point Commander,” Sigurd reported, “the _Wolfhound_ has broken away, and is heading towards your position. Over.”

There was an audible sigh. “Of _course_ , it is...”

Sigurd bit his lip lightly. The Elementals could probably survive the attack, but what of the technicians? “Sir, I can take you to the _Wolfhound_ ,” he said suddenly.

“Bondsman, you speak out of turn.”

Sigurd ignored the reprimand and throttled up, then hit the MASC again. The _Fire Moth_ quickly gained ground on the mercenary. “Sir, this 'Mech is no match for the _Wolfhound,_ but I can beat it to the hangar. Let me take you to it.” He peppered his suggestion with praise. “Surely your Elementals can dispose of this stravag, _quiaff_?”

Such a tactic was standard fare for an Elemental, but Jay obviously did not trust a bondsman to ferry his troops. He would have already suggested it himself, if he did. Grudgingly, the man gave his assent. “Aff.”

The _Wolfhound_ fired at him as he passed, but the _Fire Moth_ was easily twice its speed with the MASC. All of its shots missed their mark entirely. As he neared the hangar, he let his speed drop to a cruising pace, and cantered up to the hangar doors. Before he had even come to a stop, the Elementals rose up on their jumpjets.

Not a second later, he felt the _Fire Moth_ shiver as each of the Elementals landed on it. He could sense them scurrying over the chassis, latching onto the hand-holds, and making the Omni lean and tilt under their weight. He took a deep breath, reminding the instinct-driven part of his brain that they were on his side. For now, at least.

“Go!” Jay ordered as soon as his warriors were secured. “Get us as close as you can.”

“Aff.” Sigurd did as he was bid, and hit the throttle again. The _Wolfhound_ slowed as it realized he was running back towards it. Although it seemed confused by his behavior, the 'Mech maintained its original heading. The two machines exchanged fire as they neared, clawing one another.

Sigurd lined up his crosshairs carefully and pulled back on the trigger, unleashing all of the _Fire Moth's_ remaining weapons. Once the Elementals swarmed, he would not be able to attack the _Wolfhound_. This one had to count.

As he fired, he could feel a weight lift from his shoulders. Jay and the others rose up on their jumpjets, and came down on top of the _Wolfhound_. They moved not a moment too soon. The last of his missiles splashed against the opposing 'Mech just before they landed on it. At the same time, the _Wolfhound_ bit back.

Sigurd saw the beams, but this time, he was unable to evade. The left torso of his 'Mech disintegrated right before his eyes, and the 'Mech's computer went mad with damage relays. Sigurd pulled back, but not before the _Wolfhound_ landed a punch to his right side. He pressed hard on the control stick and felt a shock run through his body as the neurohelmet demanded the use of his equilibrium. The instant he recovered his balance, he rocketed away from the _Wolfhound_.

His 'Mech was little more than a walking pile of endo-steel bones after that round. Both of its arms were gone, and only a precious few points of armor clung to its center torso, shielding the engine. Sigurd retreated towards the treeline, but kept an eye on the _Wolfhound_ and the Elementals now swarming it.

Fortunately for him, they had the pilot's undivided attention. As huge as they were, Elementals seemed small from his point of view in the cockpit. In the darkness, he could hardly make out where they were until one fired a weapon or lit up its jumpjets. The mercenary, meanwhile, was frantic and scrambled to find a way to dislodge the armored warriors.

Watching the scene was strangely and morbidly fascinating, like witnessing an animal being eaten alive by insects. He had never been so close to Elementals without having to fear for his own safety. They gave no quarter to the mercenary as they shredded through the _Wolfhound's_ armor and circuitry. In the faint pre-dawn light, he could see that one of them was moving up to the cockpit. Before that warrior could attack, however, the others ripped through the _Wolfhound's_ actuators. The weight of the chassis bore down on its damaged hip, and one of the BattleMech's legs tore away from the rest of the body.

All of the Elementals leapt away as the _Wolfhound_ crashed to the ground and landed on its side. It twitched a little in its death throes, and then lay still.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a sacrifice is made.

Chapter 9

 

As bad as the _Fire Moth_ looked, there was more left of it than there remained of the _Wolfhound_. After they tore out its hip, the Elementals discovered that the pilot had been knocked unconscious in the subsequent fall. No one wanted to claim the mercenary as their bondsman, and some of them insisted the pilot should be killed as precaution—or revenge.

As Point Commander, Jay settled the matter quickly, and ordered that the pilot should come to no harm. Despite their grudge against the mercenaries, he was not a murderer and would not allow anyone else to become one. Jay cut open the cockpit and removed the mercenary pilot, then laid him on the grass without putting so much as a scratch on him. Considering the monstrous look of their suits, Sigurd was surprised to see how gentle and precise Elementals could be when they wanted.

While the MechWarrior himself was off limits, Jay gladly let his Point take out their anger on the _Wolfhound_. There would be no way to salvage it, if there even was anything in such a 'Mech that they wanted or needed. If they could not use it, Jay was not about to let the mercenaries have it. They dismantled it entirely.

 

 

Sigurd maneuvered into the hangar carefully, and crouched down in order to allow the Elementals to depart. Once they were unloaded, he guided the _Fire Moth_ back into the racks where he had found it. As he powered down the 'Mech and took off the neurohelmet, he felt a little strange. It seemed for just a moment, that he was much smaller than he should be. He climbed out of the cockpit and stretched his arms to reassure himself that both were still attached.

Jay stood on the catwalk, visor open, speaking with the chief technician nearby.

“We reset the _Stormcrow_ ,” the tech began, “but there's a problem with the _Kit Fox_. I think the mercenaries tried to splice in one of their own neurohelmets, failed, and then put the original back. The wiring is all wrong, now. I can try to get it working again, but I'm afraid I'll miss something if I rush.”

“That is a severe problem, _quiaff_?”

“Unless you _want_ to lobotomize him.”

The Elemental gave the woman a warning look for her tone, but was far too occupied to quibble about that or her loose speech. “Very well. Tell your crew to move out.”

As the chief went to gather the other techs, the Point Commander approached Sigurd. Jay looked down at him for a moment, as if considering his next words. Then, he snapped his visor shut and pointed to the medium 'Mech at the end of the catwalk. “Take the _Stormcrow_ ,” he instructed over the external speaker, “and wait for us to load.”

Sigurd did not ask why he was given this assignment. He already knew. Either the other APC was delayed or it was not coming at all, and they were running out of time. There would be no “real” MechWarriors to help them.

Although the _Stormcrow_ was somewhat battered on the outside, its cockpit was pristine. He sat down in the command couch, plugged in the neurohelmet, and slipped it on. It fit much like the _Fire Moth's_ helmet. When he started up the 'Mech, however, the sensation of the machine was entirely different. He felt his nerves grow hot with activity, and his flesh seemed to melt away. This was not the terrifying out-of-body experience he had during the interrogation, though. This was almost euphoric. He felt awake, alert.

 _Alive_.

As he familiarized himself with the OmniMech's controls and pulled on the waldo glove for its hand, he could sense the 'Mech sway slightly under the weight of the boarding Elementals. He leaned back and forth unconsciously, adjusting and compensating for each added ton. The gentle push-and-pull of the machine on his mind and body was comfortingly familiar.

“Stay close to the convoy,” Jay instructed, securing himself. “Move out. I will instruct you further as we travel.”

“Aff, ovkhan,” he replied automatically. Any other time, he might have thought he was getting a little too used to Clan speech. Right now, however, he was far too preoccupied with the 'Mech and the mission.

He throttled up smoothly and headed towards the door. As he began to step out into the open, a bolt of light shot past the nose of his 'Mech. Sigurd backed up as quickly as he could.

“Incoming!” he barked to the Elementals.

The infantry leapt away from his 'Mech as a volley of lasers speared into the hangar. The beams ripped into the _Kit Fox_ beside him, and destroyed the catwalk between them. He pressed the throttle forward again, and cantered out to meet their attacker.

Moonlight illuminated the sleek, rounded profile of a _Caesar_ as it stalked forth to meet him. It fired, slashing the right side of his 'Mech with its lasers, but some of the shots missed. Sigurd tightened his turn and sprinted towards it. He lined up his crosshairs, selected all weapons groups and, as the reticule flashed red, squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, and got the same result. “There is something wrong with my weapons,” he reported. He throttled up, frustrated, and tried to get out of the _Caesar's_ firing arc as it sliced armor off of his torso.

“You think I would let a bondsman have so many weapons, _quineg_? Circumstances have changed, though...” The Elemental heaved a sigh. “Transmitting lock codes, now.”

Sigurd quickly keyed in the sequence, and turned his guns on the mercenary. Paying no mind to his heat gauge, he unleashed all of the _Stormcrow's_ weaponry. The bigger 'Mech stumbled under the sudden onslaught and swung its torso around to face him as it fired its gauss rifle. The shot ripped across his armor, but the recoil worsened the _Caesar's_ balance. Its foot slipped on the pavement outside the hangar, and it began to tumble towards one of the escaping vehicles.

“No!” Sigurd gasped aloud.

He stomped down on the throttle pedals, and slammed the shoulder of his _Stormcrow_ into the opposing 'Mech to halt its fall. A screech of metal grinding against metal filled the air as the two collided. He activated the sensor glove quickly and grabbed the _Caesar's_ arm to hold it while his Omni pawed at the ground, pushing it up. The _Caesar_ shoved back, trying to get away, and landed a glancing kick to the leg of his 'Mech.

Finally, the two separated. The mercenary backed up, then circled around to get a better shot at him. There was a bright flash of azure in the darkness and static washed over his HUD. The _Stormcrow_ faltered as the armor on its leg peeled away, and Sigurd pulled back hard on the stick to help keep it aright. He torso-twisted to face the _Caesar_ , preparing to be struck again while he recovered.

Suddenly, it seemed to change its mind and scoured the ground with its lasers. The Elementals had attracted its attention. Sigurd renewed his attack, blistering it with his SRMs, but the _Caesar_ was intent on destroying the Wolf battle armor before they could swarm it. As one of the Elementals jumped at it from the right, the _Caesar_ turned and fired its PPC. Ions shredded through both man and suit, and the warrior fell back to the ground in a heap.

Sigurd quickly moved between the Elemental and mercenary, and hit the opposing 'Mech again. “Grab on,” he told the warrior.

“I give you a 'Mech, and you start giving me orders, _quiaff_?” It was Jay's voice. He laughed weakly. “You MechWarriors are all the same.”

Slowly, he got up and dragged himself to the _Stormcrow's_ leg. As Sigurd looked down, he realized the man had lost his entire right arm. Black, slimy harjel oozed from the wound to seal his suit.

“Get me close,” the Elemental directed, a bit hoarse.

Sigurd throttled up and circled around to get behind the _Caesar_. Sweat had begun to bead on his skin while the heat sinks worked to dissipate the excess heat from his weapons. The _Stormcrow_ had just edged into overheating, but he needed to keep putting pressure on the mercenary. Another shot from its PPC could cripple his 'Mech's injured leg or worse. He noted the gauge on his HUD quickly, and selected both short-range missiles and two of his lasers.

“Wait until I fire, sir,” he cautioned his passenger.

“Aff.” Jay's reply sounded a little weaker, this time.

While the _Caesar_ remained preoccupied with the Elementals attacking its legs, Sigurd found an opening and unloaded his weapons into the upper part of its hull. The bigger 'Mech stumbled, unprepared for the attack, and armor burst from its torso and arm. As soon as the shrapnel had fallen, Jay leapt into the air on his jumpjets. He landed on the _Caesar's_ damaged arm, grabbing onto the torn portions of its armor.

The pilot seemed panicked by this, but could do nothing to dislodge Jay as he moved up to the _Caesar's_ shoulder. Between the _Stormcrow's_ guns and the Elementals' attacks, the heavy 'Mech was starting to weaken. Sigurd sliced into it with his lasers, and unconsciously began to grin.

As he dashed past it, he heard a shrill beep from his console. A bright flash washed over his 'Mech, nearly tearing off his shoulder. Sigurd stumbled, corrected, and looked to his HUD frantically. That had not come from the _Caesar_.

“ _Marauder!_ ” one of the Elementals announced, before Sigurd had the chance.

“Make that two 'Mechs,” another reported. “Mark one _Thunderbolt_ with the MAD, about 700 meters out.”

Sigurd pulled back, trying to put the _Caesar_ between himself and the oncoming 'Mechs. “Point Commander, I can deal with this one,” he volunteered, exchanging more fire with the mercenary.

“Neg!” the man barked. Jay gave a haggard cough, and began to sound increasingly short of breath. It was clear now that his wounds were internal, as well. “Our primary objective is to return the 'Mech, and it is already in shambles. Everyone! Load onto the _Stormcrow_. Tammi, take the lead.”

One of his subordinates, presumably Tammi, spoke up. “Ovkhan, I—” Whatever she intended to say, she swiftly changed her mind. “Aff.”

“Make best speed for nav Delta, Point Commander,” Jay ordered.

The other Elementals jumped away from the _Caesar_ and landed one after the other on the _Stormcrow_. Jay remained, and started stripping the armor that protected the mercenary's gauss rifle.

Tammi opened a channel to Sigurd. “The APCs are already moving. Stay close to them.”

“Aff,” he replied to her, then a little more hesitantly, “Point Commander.”

He turned in the direction the convoy was heading and punched the throttle to catch them. In his aft view, he could see the _Caesar_ stumble about, while Jay tore into it. Moments later, a fireball lit the night, engulfing the 'Mech and the Elemental along with it.

 

* * * * *

 

“You're a damned fool, Sigurd Volsung.” Emma frowned at him as she leaned against the door frame of his quarters.

“Is this about hobbies, again?” he asked, trying for a bit of levity.

She scowled, and he looked away. Sigurd knew what this was about, though not how she had heard of his mission so quickly. He had only had time enough for a shower and quick change of clothes after returning, and here she was. It was obvious from her face that she knew all the details, too.

Sigurd heaved a sigh. “What was I supposed to do?”

She shook her head and sat down on the edge of the bunk opposite his. “Run? Fight? Just... _something_. I know you've been trying to be patient. You are incredibly, frustratingly patient about this,” Emma said, with a what might have been a half-chuckle. “But, god, I— I can't believe you killed for them.”

“I killed no one,” he replied defensively. “The _Wolfhound_ pilot lived. If the _Caesar's_ pilot died, it was not by my hand.” _Besides, the universe could do with fewer hire-swords,_ he thought.

Emma considered this for a bit, then shook her head. “I guess I can't help thinking about what I would've done. Or what I _think_ I would've done. My family's probably worried sick about me, if they don't think I'm dead. I keep telling myself I'd do anything to get back,” she said, sighing, “but I'm not sure I'd have to guts to fight Elementals, either. I saw what those monsters can do to a 'Mech. Scares the shit out of me, honestly.”

“I was not frightened of them. I just... I never thought about it.”

She jerked her head up. “You mean to tell me, they put you in a 'Mech and you never even _considered_ fighting them off?” Emma kept her voice low, but her tone was fervid. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He was not sure how to answer.

“You know, fear is something I can understand. Even the best of us are afraid. But you're not a coward, Sigurd, you're just brainwashed!”

“That is not true.”

“Stop and listen to yourself, for a minute. You talk like them, you train with them, and now you're fighting for them.” She shook her head. “You asked me to keep you grounded, but I'm starting to think you're too far gone. Whatever they did to you in that interrogation obviously screwed you up a lot more than you'll admit. Kerensky's turning you into his puppet.”

He stood, angry now, and glared at her. “I know you do not agree with my choices, but they _are_ choices. Attacking did not occur to me, and perhaps it should have,” he admitted, “but I chose to stay and fight with them.”

Emma put her hands up in a gesture of abstention. “That's it. I'm done,” she said tiredly, and walked to the door. She stopped for a moment and looked back at him sadly, before stepping into the hall. “I don't know what you think you're doing, but I hope you figure it out. I can't help you, anymore.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are beasts.

Chapter 10

 

“According to Point Commander Tammi, your performance was 'satisfactory.'”

“Thank you, Star Colonel.”

The debriefing had gone much better than Sigurd anticipated. While Akela Kerensky was irritated by the relatively low success of the mission, he found no fault in Jay's actions, given the circumstances. Oddly, nothing was made of the deceased Elemental's decision to allow a bondsman to pilot—let alone fight in—a 'Mech. As much as Sigurd told himself it was not his concern, he was actually sorry the Point Commander had died. Perhaps he felt some empathy because he had once been in a similar situation. The difference, of course, was that he had hoped to return to his unit, while Jay was clearly prepared to die. The mission gave Sigurd a new, albeit grudging, respect for the Wolves.

The Star Colonel stood and paced around to the front of his desk. “Have you anything to add to the report? You seem... displeased,” he observed.

Sigurd began to speak, then thought better of it. What could he say? He felt deeply confused, right now. He looked past Akela to the Clan Wolf flag displayed on the wall, and felt a chill down his spine. The insignia was a reminder of the danger that lay in dealing with the Clans, and of the monster that stalked in his shadow.

When he thought of what he had been offered, however, he found his strength of will returning. His hatred of the Jade Falcons was probably not healthy, he surmised, but it was an excellent motivator. Even thinking of them in such a cursory manner made his blood run hot. He looked up at the flag again and frowned. Perhaps a monster was exactly what he needed, right now.

 _One beast to slay another._ Aloud, he replied, “I am just tired.”

It was not very convincing, but Akela seemed to understand it was meant more as a deflection of the question than a real answer. Sigurd found it a little odd, actually, that Akela did understand. Most Clanners seemed to be very literal-minded, and were not terribly quick to catch more subtle social cues.

“You should get some rest, then. You have much ahead of you, bondsman,” Akela said. He offered no explanation, though. It seemed neither of them was inclined to be forthright with the other, today. “I shall not keep you from your tasks any longer, _quiaff_? Mira seems eager to resume your training.”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd kept his eyes closed as he moved from one stance to the next. Doing _kata_ this way made him focus more on himself and less on the things around him. He also found that it heightened his other senses, particularly the sense of his own body. There was a scientific word for it which he could not remember. Mostly, he understood it as the feeling of where he existed in space: an inherent knowledge of the position and movement of his own limbs. That, perhaps as much as sight, was crucial to a MechWarrior.

Most lay people knew that a neurohelmet drew upon a person's sense of balance to keep a 'Mech standing. Less common was the knowledge that the device also tapped into this kinesthetic sense. The best pilots, his mother had told him, were those who could “feel” their 'Mechs as they could feel their own bodies. It was important to keep this sense sharp, and these _kata_ were excellent practice.

“Good form.”

Sigurd opened his eyes and glanced over to the door, but kept his stance and then moved on to the next one. Mira stood in the doorway, examining him.

“Thank you, warrior. I had a good teacher.”

“Modesty?”

“The truth.”

He closed his eyes again focused more intently on his movements. Now was not the time for grief or regret. He diverted his thoughts to the hated Falcons, and felt energy surge through his muscles.

“You come here every day, _quiaff?_ Cenek said he has seen you train for several hours. I did not expect such discipline from a Spherer.” Mira walked over to join him, and began performing the same set of _kata_.

He chuckled a little at her comment. “Truthfully, warrior, I have little else to do,” he replied. “Besides, it keeps me from going stir-crazy.”

“I heard they put you in a 'Mech, the other day.”

“Aff, that is true.”

“And you fought?”

“That is also true.”

She stopped for a moment and looked at him curiously. “You miss it, _quiaff?_ ”

Sigurd faltered a little under the weight of her question, but regained his footing and completed the move. That was very true.

“Aff. I do.”

Mira looked thoughtful for a moment. “Put your boots on,” she said, “and come with me.”

He did as he was bid and followed her out into the corridor. The Elemental led him down the hall to a door marked with a red Cameron star—the symbol for warrior-only access. She opened a small panel beside the door and quickly punched in an access code. Sigurd looked around curiously as they entered. Inside the room was a computer terminal and five black cocoon-like machines, arranged together in a semi-circle.

 _Simulators_.

“I will beat you up tomorrow,” she said with a shrug as she turned back to face him. “For now, I think we should see how your other skills have held up.” She sat down at the terminal and turned on one of the simulator pods. It hummed to life and the door slid open. “What class of 'Mech are you most familiar with?”

“Mediums,” he answered swiftly.

Mira nodded. “Very well. I will pick something from the random tables for that weight.”

“We are going to duel,” he asked, confused, “ _quineg?_ ”

She laughed. “Do you think I could even _fit_ in one of those things? I would definitely not be able to get out again, if I did,” she chuckled. “I will set up a remote connection for you, so someone can join over the chatterweb. Let us see how much you have learned in your studies.”

Sigurd climbed into the simulator and strapped himself in. The door closed automatically behind him, which he did not care for, but he put on the neurohelmet and began the start-up sequence. He felt a slight tug on his sense of balance as the pod hummed to life, but it was not quite the same as the feeling of piloting a real 'Mech. Still, he was glad for the exercise. As the simulation began, he noted that he had been assigned an _Ice Ferret_. That was unsurprising, considering how ubiquitous they were among the Wolves, even now.

He waited as the simulator generated the landscape, and took the time he was given to familiarize himself with the _Ice Ferret's_ controls and weapons. It was a prime configuration, which boasted an ER PPC, but the rest of its weaponry was minimal. A message flashed across his HUD in short order, informing him that an opponent had joined the match.

“Found someone!” Mira called to him from outside the pod.

“You selected an assault 'Mech, _quiaff?_ ” he called back.

She chuckled. “Neg, I should have thought of that! Perhaps next time?”

He smiled a little, adjusted his grip on the control stick, and settled into the simulator's command couch. He had trained in simulators before, but the Clans' pods were different from the ones he was used to. The controls had the same design aesthetic seen in many OmniMechs, and the entire unit seemed to utilize more advanced technology than Inner Sphere pods. The simulation itself was much more realistic-looking, as well. A countdown appeared on the HUD as the program finalized.

“Greetings,” said a young man, suddenly. “I am MechWarrior Gregor of Clan Diamond Shark. Whom do I have the honor of facing?”

Sigurd hesitated a little, then hit the comm button and answered his opponent. “I am Sigurd of the Wolves.”

“Interesting. I thought your kind did not care for the sims.”

“No harm in giving it a try.” Sigurd closed his eyes for just a moment and attempted to feel the _Ice Ferret_ through the neurohelmet. He felt _something_ , but the pathways stopped short of where he knew the 'Mech's limbs should be. While the Clan simulator pod was good, it was not quite good enough to replicate that sense. He opened his eyes again and watched the countdown timer carefully.

The instant the timer hit zero, he gunned the throttle. He had no idea what Gregor was piloting, and so chose to rely on the _Ferret's_ speed. It was much faster than the _Dervish_ he knew so well, but after driving a _Fire Moth_ , it almost seemed slow in comparison.

The map this program had created was quite large, which suited his speed, with sparse woods and a few hills. The weather was clear, and it looked to be midday in some planet's early autumn. Overall, it was not an environmentally-challenging locale, and that would allow him to focus on getting used to this OmniMech. He zigzagged through the open terrain, looking for his opponent.

After nearly a minute of searching, with no sign of the other pilot, he decided to scale a small hill for a better vantage point. There was a terse beep from his console, and a _Viper_ appeared on his radar. The cobalt-blue 'Mech swiveled to face him at the same moment, and the two Omnis exchanged PPC fire. Both of them missed.

Following that, they each throttled up again to move into a better position. It seemed the Shark had chosen a B-configuration, which was quite similar to his own 'Mech's load-out. That presented a problem. Their weapons ranges overlapped almost entirely, and their speed was the same. It was going to be very difficult to gain the upper hand in this battle.

Sigurd darted after Gregor's _Viper_ , passing through a stand of trees on the way down the hillside. That spoiled the Clanner's aim and the _Viper's_ ER PPC sizzled into a simulated tree just behind him. He twisted the _Ferret's_ torso hard to the left as the _Viper_ began to run, but momentarily lost it behind an outcrop of rocks. He fired as soon as it emerged, missing again.

The two medium OmniMechs chased each other through another small grove of trees and into the open plain. For a moment, Sigurd got in behind the _Viper_ but he did not have an opportunity to capitalize on his position. Just as he dragged the targeting reticule over his opponent's back, the _Viper_ swiveled its left arm towards him. He throttled up again when its PPC grazed his side, flaking armor from the _Ice Ferret's_ torso. Sigurd gave a parting shot with his small laser, but it put little more than a scratch on the _Viper_.

With both 'Mechs constantly running at full tilt and keeping their distance, it was tough for either of them to place a shot correctly. Sigurd attempted to use his SRMs a few times, but never managed to get a solid lock. Even though the streak system would only fire when a solid lock was obtained, he was not inclined to be liberal with his missiles. Ammo conservation was too strongly imprinted in his brain through prior training.

 _Lives are cheap. Bullets ain't_ , as the oft-repeated saying went.

Gregor made a dash through the trees to shake him and, much to Sigurd's annoyance, it worked. The _Viper_ disappeared entirely from his radar, and he quickly circled around to catch it as it emerged from the other side. It seemed, however, that the tactic worked too well. For the next two minutes, he saw no sign of it on radar or any of his other sensors. He began to suspect they had gone in opposite directions as they searched for one another.

The _Ice Ferret_ scampered up a hill, and he finally spied the _Viper_ on his radar, moving past the cliffs below him towards a small pool. He pitched his 'Mech's torso downward so he could see the other 'Mech, but it moved again. He trotted down the slope after it. Spotting him, the _Viper_ turned. Once more, they exchanged fire and this time, both hit their mark. The _Ice Ferret_ was heat-neutral, but the cockpit was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm without a cooling vest. Sigurd brushed some sweat from his brow before it ran into his eyes, and tightened his arc of movement. Each OmniMech scarred the other's leg with ions, and the two stabbed into one another with their lasers.

“I wondered where you had gone, Wolf,” the Shark warrior said, chuckling as they circled each other. “I was starting to think you had jumped into that pond for a swim.”

With neither able to close in on the other at this moment, they pulled away, trading a few more laser shots in the process. Sigurd moved into one of the wider clearings to encourage the other MechWarrior to square off with him in the open. As he moved, however, things started to feel a bit surreal. Rocks changed colors under his feet and some of the trees flickered in and out of existence. Sigurd felt his heart skip a beat when he realized he could not feel his 'Mech.

 _No, not now!_ he gasped as panic seized him. He must be hallucinating. _Not in the middle of a battle!_

He readjusted his grip on the control sticks and tried to steady his breathing. As he looked over to the _Viper_ , he saw the Diamond Shark insignia on its leg flicker; for a moment, the image was replaced by a checkerboard pattern.

Sigurd squinted at it a little, then laughed suddenly. While he felt stupid for letting himself forget where he was, he was also immensely relieved. It was the program, not his brain, which had glitched.

“Are you okay?” Mira called, sounding a little concerned.

“Just fine!” For the first time in a long time, that was true.

Sigurd brought his attention back to the battle, and dashed across the plain towards his opponent. The two OmniMechs bit into each other as they passed. He torso-twisted to continue facing the _Viper_ as it ran, holding his crosshairs steady over its wedge-shaped torso. His efforts were rewarded with the shrill tone of a missile lock. Sigurd squeezed the trigger and both SRMs slammed into the side of the dark blue 'Mech.

At the end of the exchange, both he and Gregor had lost a fair amount of armor. However, neither of them was much worse off than the other. They moved again to reposition for the next round of fire. The _Viper's_ inability to torso-twist was something he might be able to exploit. It did not take long for him to find such an opportunity.

As they ran again, the _Viper_ took a wide, semi-circular route just past some of the trees. Sigurd leaned hard on the control stick and cut across the field between them. The _Viper's_ laser pitted his armor, but its main gun missed as he flanked it. When his targeting reticule flashed red, he ripped into the other 'Mech's side armor with his own ER PPC. The _Viper_ stumbled under the blow as its right arm and part of its torso sheared away. Gregor caught his balance quickly and whipped around, returning fire as he dashed past Sigurd.

The _Ice Ferret_ jerked and its HUD went to static as the ions washed over the 'Mech. Sigurd felt a brief pang at his temples from the neurohelment, shook it off, and floored the throttle. His OmniMech refused to move.

“Uh, Wolf?” the Clanner asked, suddenly. “How many _legs_ does your 'Mech have, right now?”

Sigurd could not see its feet, but as the static cleared he could see the damage indicators. He frowned. “How many legs do you see?”

“Just one.”

“That is what my HUD says, too.”

The _Viper_ turned to face him, then crouched down, and Gregor spoke again. “So, from your perspective, you are still standing, _quiaff?_ ”

“Aff.” Sigurd rocked the control stick back and forth, experimentally. There was no change in his balance.

There was silence for a moment. “I think we may be experiencing technical difficulties.”

“Did you see the landscape... flicker? Earlier?”

“Oh, that always happens,” the Shark replied dismissively. He sighed. “But this? This I will have to report.”

Sigurd leaned back in the command couch. “Well, I guess we can call this a match. Since you sliced my leg off entirely, I have no choice but to concede.”

He chuckled. “That is what I like about your Clan. You are realists. Well fought, Sigurd of the Wolves.”

“And you, MechWarrior.”

With that, the Diamond Shark disconnected, and the simulation reset. Sigurd “powered down” the _Ice Ferret_ , and took off the neurohelmet.

“Everything all right in there?” Mira asked as she opened the door for him.

Sigurd climbed out of the pod and massaged his temples. He had a peculiar but faint headache.

“Aff,” he replied, wiping more sweat away from his brow. “I fought against a Diamond Shark who piloted a _Viper_.”

“I know. I could see and hear the whole thing.” She motioned to the monitor on the computer terminal. “I logged in as a spectator. It was kind of funny to watch you two run around, hunting for each other.”

He nodded. “Do you think there is something wrong with the simulator?”

She stood and stretched, then shook her head. “Neg. It is probably the new chatterweb integration, if I had to guess. That must have been why your opponent said he had to report the problem. The Sharks created it, you know.”

“I see.” Sigurd looked up at her and offered a faint smile. “Thank you, warrior, for allowing me this training.”

She shrugged a little. “It is on the Star Colonel's orders. Besides, I can get more done if I leave you to do this for awhile.”

“You are not worried about leaving me alone in a restricted area?”

“I left twice while you were in there, just now. You did not seem to notice, and you were probably enjoying yourself too much to care.” Mira grinned. “Besides, I locked you in.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emma has a plan.

Chapter 11

 

With some exceptions, the Clans did not care much for simulators. They considered the machines primarily a means to instruct sibko cadets too inexperienced to be trusted with real 'Mechs. Sigurd had learned by piloting his father's _Dervish_ from the start, and so he was inclined to agree. The occasional glitches in the program were an unpleasant distraction, as well. But even a pale substitution was better than nothing at all.

After talking with Mira, he had discovered that even trueborn bondsmen could spend a year or more outside of a 'Mech before being drafted back into the Warrior Caste. It depended entirely on the bondsman in question, the Clan which captured them, and the whims of their bondholder. Knowing that pushed him to redouble his efforts at proving his skills to Akela.

He spent as much time as possible training in the simulators. None of the Wolf MechWarriors were interested in fighting him, of course, so he continued to face randomly selected opponents from the chatterweb. He seldom knew who he faced, since not all of his opponents identified themselves or their Clan. In fact, he could not be sure if they were true or freeborn, or if they were even warriors, at all. For all he knew, he could be fighting cadets or retirees half the time. Some of the opponents he faced were weaker or less experienced than he was, some were an even match for him, and others still were so fierce and deadly that, in a real battle, they would have killed him easily. The only thing he knew for certain was that they all were Clan. No matter their strengths or weaknesses, he would learn from them.

If an opponent made a misstep, he logged it away into his own memory to avoid repeating their error. The matches that gave him the most instruction, though, were the ones in which he lost. Some of the people he faced would, upon defeating him, simply end the match. Others were more ruthless, and did not seem satisfied until they had utterly destroyed his 'Mech. Because it was a simulation, they did not always follow zellbrigen, and would tear into his machine even after he admitted defeat. They wanted him dead, and were frustrated that they could not actually kill him. That was important to know.

Sigurd released his grip on the control sticks and leaned back. The match he had just finished was one such battle. He had lost to an unidentified opponent whose 'Mech bore no insignia. His own 'Mech had been a _Mad Dog_ this time, at Mira's suggestion. He liked the weapons, but its lack of jumpjets had cost him in the map's rough terrain. His opponent had used that against him and, once he was down, had made a point of putting a virtual shot right through his cockpit. That kind of deliberate slaughter was frowned upon in the Clans, and seen as wasteful.

He took off the neurohelmet, massaged his fingertips over his temples, and then pounded a fist on the pod door. It was extremely stuffy inside the simulator pod after hours of battling. Mira had procured the cooling vest he had worn previously, and let him use it now to prevent heat fatigue. Sometimes, she even forced him to take breaks between matches, if he had not already opted to do so.

While he appreciated that she kept an eye on his health, he doubted it came from sympathy. The two of them had developed a relationship over the course of his training, but he understood they were not now friends and would not be friends. As far as she was concerned, he was like a piece of borrowed equipment, which was to be carefully maintained and returned to the owner in its original condition. If he was anything else at all to the Elemental, he was an amusing diversion: a punching bag that hit back, or a neighborhood dog she could play fetch with when it suited her.

Sigurd pounded his fist on the door again, to get her attention. This time, it slid open. Mira looked up from the terminal, with both hands on the controls and a piece of bread in her mouth.

“I was hoping to get back before this one ended.” She took the morsel in her hands again and sat down, looking quite disappointed. “How did it go?”

He climbed out and picked up the towel he had brought, wiping the sweat from his face and arms. “Terribly,” he grumbled.

Mira arched her eyebrows in a look that demanded he elaborate.

Sigurd sighed and slumped down on the floor next to the simulator. “Things started out well enough. You probably saw the damage I did to that _Black_ _Lanner_ in the opening rounds, quiaff? When did you leave?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Well, after the boring bit when I lost the _Lanner_ down in the gullies, it popped up again, on my nine o'clock. It kicked in its MASC and started trying to get in behind me. I turned my back to a cliff wall, to keep it in my forward arc, and face it head-on with my lasers.” Sigurd heaved another sigh and raked his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. “It kept getting nearer, and its close-range weaponry was starting to weaken my armor, so I tried to put some distance between us... and slipped.

“Either I put the _Mad Dog's_ foot too close to the ledge or the rocks gave way—I am not sure. Anyway, I fell about the height of my 'Mech, landed on one of my arms and snapped it clean off, and busted my hip actuator. I managed to get up again, but by that time, the _Lanner_ was standing on the ledge I had fallen from. It unloaded all its weapons into me and destroyed my engine.”

Mira frowned a little. “And?”

He shrugged. “And I lost.” Sigurd decided to leave out the part about the other pilot's headhunting. It seemed pointless to mention, and would only sound like a complaint. Mira had no patience for complaints.

“You are not usually upset about that,” she noted. “Did you actually discover the other pilot was a Jade Falcon? Or do you just think it, because they chose a _Black Lanner_?”

“Who said anything about the Falcons?” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent. He was sure his expression belied his tone of voice.

“The Star Colonel did,” she replied. “He told me you hate them, but I could have figured that out for myself. The first time you fought one, your heart rate shot up so high I thought I was going to have to call a medic. Did you wonder why you have not seen any of the green birds, since? I locked you out from entering matches with anyone identifying as part of that Clan.”

“Why?” he growled, and instantly regretted his tone of voice.

If the Elemental was concerned about his sudden temper, she did not show it. Her own tone of voice changed, and became somewhat like the one an adult might use in explaining something to a child. “I admit, I did enjoy watching you fly into a berserker rage. How do you suppose it would reflect on me, though, if I let you work yourself into having an aneurysm or something? Do you understand?”

“Aff, warrior.”

She nodded “Now, you never answered my earlier question about the _Lanner_.”

Sigurd shook his head and stood. “Does it matter?”

“No. Which means you should stop acting so pissy about this, _quiaff?_ ” Mira stabbed a finger at him. “Go clean up and eat, and quit sulking. You can take it out on me, tomorrow.”

“Aff, ovkhan,” he replied, letting a brief smile break his frown.

 

* * * * *

 

There was no hard and fast division between warrior and civilian in the mess hall, but each group kept to itself, anyway. At first, Sigurd thought the warrior subcastes were self-segregating from one another, as well. He later realized it was simply a case of people choosing to spend their time with their own units. If a Point of Elementals all went to dinner at the same time, they sat together; the same went for a Star of MechWarriors. When a whole unit was not in the mess hall, they mixed more freely. The general preference, he discovered, was first for one's unit, then for one's sibkin, and finally for other friends and acquaintances.

Once he realized that, he began making note of who sat with whom. In this way, he was able to mentally graph relationships and learn how the warriors around him were connected. He had learned, for example, that Gunnar and Lorna were indeed “related.” They must have had different geneparents, for they looked nothing alike, but they had come from the same sibko, which included an Aerospace pilot, as well. Cenek and Gunnar were part of the same Star, and that Star was part of the Binary that Lorna now commanded.

Sigurd himself ate alone most of the time. If anyone else joined him, it was usually a laborer or technician who sat at the same table because there were no more places to sit. Emma, of course, had quit talking to him. He was a little surprised then, when someone sat down across the table from him in the largely empty room.

“Afternoon.” Even before he looked up, he recognized his bondholder's characteristically pleasant tone. Akela smiled. “How have you been enjoying the simulator training?”

“I find it useful, ovkhan.” Sigurd was never quite sure how to respond to questions like this. He knew it did not matter what he liked or enjoyed, and always found it strange that Akela would bother to ask such things.

“That is good to hear. The sims are not very popular, so I was starting to wonder if they were worth having around.”

Sigurd nodded. “It is useful. It is just not quite as...”

“Satisfying?” the Star Colonel finished.

“Aff.” He stared down at his plate and pushed the remains of his meal around with his fork, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in the back of his mind.

It was not so bad now as when he had been on Virentofta. It had begun after he came out of the fever dream of the wilderness, and had time to think about things besides finding and killing his next meal. In spite of Murata-san and her father's best efforts to help him, he had felt restless during his recovery, as if something was leeching out of his core. All the sparring and training he did only salved the pain and eventually, he realized the longing would destroy him. The sims helped more, but he feared it was still not enough.

He pushed such things from his mind and finished the food in front of him. It was not good, but it was edible. That was all he really required.

Akela worked on his own dinner, though less enthusiastically. “I notice you seldom speak of your family,” he said between bites.

“Hm?” Sigurd raised his eyebrows a little. The question came out of nowhere, but he was beginning to expect that from the Star Colonel. “Forgive me, but... why should you want to know? I thought trueborns hated to hear about that sort of thing.”

Akela leaned back from the table and crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “Hm. Morbid curiosity? I suppose I just find it odd that you never speak of them. I have seldom met a freeborn who did not seem very concerned about their family, whether positively or negatively. You mentioned your father once. You have nothing to say of your mother? Siblings?”

“My father died when I was young. My mother raised me alone, after that. She... She died a few years ago.” Sigurd fell silent for a moment. “I had no siblings.”

“None?” The Star Colonel frowned a little.

For a moment, his reaction seemed out of place. Then Sigurd recalled that while Akela certainly had no parents, (not the way Sigurd had), the man would have been part of a large sibko, like all trueborns. There was the young woman from the ROM, with whom he seemed friendly, after all. Even Gunnar and Lorna liked each other in a strange way, so the Clans clearly had their own sorts of familial relationships.

“That must have been lonely.”

Sigurd shrugged faintly. He had some extended family on his homeworld: his father's brother and sister, and a few cousins. His aunt and uncle had never really gotten along his mother, though, or approved of her foreign origins. Once his father passed, they practically became strangers.

As a child, he did not understand why his father's family had no interest in him. Gradually, though, he came to realize that his presence was painful to them. On one hand, he was a reminder of the brother they had lost. On the other hand, he was more an embodiment of his mother, a stranger, than Kurt Volsung. It did not help that he began to look more like her as he grew up.

The last contact he had with them was years ago and, he knew, much more a matter of local customs and duty than anything else. He still remembered returning from a scouting run to find the message waiting for him. His mother had died, it said, claimed by drought. His relatives wrote to inform him of her passing, and to let him know they had done him the courtesy of giving her a proper funeral.

Perhaps that was why he found it so much easier than Emma to wait. She had a family who, from the sound of things, loved her very much. There was no one to even realize he was gone.

He looked up and noticed Akela scanning him curiously. The Clansman furrowed his brow, and gave Sigurd a strangely sympathetic look. “Forgive me, I should not have brought up the subject,” he said. It seemed a very genuine apology.

“No, it's— It is fine. I was just thinking...” He gathered his dish and cutlery, and stood. “With your leave, ovkhan, I would like to get back to my tasks.”

 

* * * * *

 

There was a loud knock at the door of his quarters. Sigurd was not quite asleep yet, and sat up. None of the civilians with whom he shared the room stirred. The knock came again, but before he could reach the door, it slid open.

Emma stood in the hall, looking about warily. “Come with me.” The sense of urgency in her voice was worrisome.

He quickly slipped on some proper clothes and boots. As soon as he joined her, she motioned for him to follow.

“Where are we going?” He did not move.

“Just... just come on, okay?” Emma stammered, looking increasingly nervous.

Sigurd tilted his head a little. “I seem to recall you saying you were 'done' with me.”

She sighed in frustration. “Yeah, I know what I said... But— Agh, just _come with me_ , already.” Emma clamped her hand around his upper arm to pull him along, and started walking. “I don't have time for your shit, right now, okay?”

Sigurd jerked his arm away from her, but decided to follow of his own accord.

Emma quickened the pace until they were just short of jogging, and led him through the hall to one of the lifts. They entered, and she quickly keyed in the level just above the hangar.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“We're meeting some friends,” she said guardedly.

As soon as the lift stopped, she dashed out the door, again motioning for him to follow. He was starting to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he still found himself trotting after her. They came to a stop in a fairly empty corridor, and Emma ducked into a supply room.

Inside, half a dozen men and women stood waiting. They were all wearing various Laborer or Technician Caste uniforms. The one closest to the door, an auburn-haired woman, turned to face them.

“Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Emma replied. “Did you get everything?”

The other woman nodded. “As much as we could grab. Norwich will be waiting for us at the extraction point.” She and the rest of the group shoved past Sigurd, and began heading towards the hangar.

“Emma.” He put a hand up to stop her before she followed the others. “Who are they?”

“They're some of the mercs who came in.” She pushed his shoulder gently to get him to move and left the room after him. “That Lorna woman and her Star captured one of their APCs. Fortunately, it's still in the bay.”

He stopped cold as she spoke, and turned around. “I cannot go with you.”

“Now's not the time for this.”

Sigurd clenched his fists. “No,” he said. “I will have nothing to do with them.”

By this time, the mercenaries had realized there was an argument and stopped momentarily to watch. The auburn-haired woman put a hand on her hip and frowned. “What's going on?”

“None of your concern,” he retorted. “I am not leaving with you.”

She shrugged and pulled out a knife from inside her jacket. “Then you won't leave, at all,” the woman growled as she took a swing at him.

Thought left him and instinct took over as soon as he saw the glint of the blade. Sigurd slid forward on his right foot and caught her knife-wielding hand in his own. The mercenary woman brought her knee up to kick him, but she was not quick enough. He knocked her to the ground, still holding her wrist, and followed her down. As they landed, Sigurd pressed the woman's arm towards her body, forcing the knife she held into her own neck.

The other mercenaries wasted no time in retaliating. He stood quickly, now with the knife in his hand, and turned as one of the bigger men rushed at him. Sigurd struck and the blade caught the other man in the arm, but it failed to stop him. He body-checked Sigurd, and the bondsman toppled back over the corpse of the first mercenary into the room behind him. Before he could get up again, the door slammed shut and he heard the locking mechanism engage.

For a moment, he stood, staring at it blankly as the information filtered through his brain. He wiped the blood from his hands and cleaned the knife on his shirt. At first thought, being locked in the supply room did not seem the most terrible predicament.

Sigurd quickly realized, however, that anything the mercenaries did now might be connected to him. Other people had observed him with Emma, and even Akela had seem them talking. If there was any doubt at all about his connection to this...

He shuddered.

By this time, he had learned enough of the Clans' ways to understand that there was only one means to save himself. Non-involvement was insufficient. He would have to fight the mercenaries—and Emma.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna has a plan.

Chapter 12

 

Raw energy drove him now. There was fear at first: fear that he would again be drugged, that he would be tortured like before. It seemed he was retreading the same ground. Then anger bubbled up inside him, pouring out from his core into every last nerve. There was no such thing as fate, and destiny was a lie. He had a choice. He would not let things end now as they had before.

Sigurd burst out into the hall after finally forcing the door, and shouldered past the techs in his way. An alarm sounding in the ship. Apparently, the Clanners had discovered the mercenaries' escape. Someone yelled after him, but he did not take the time to process their words. When he reached the main door of the hangar, several warriors were gathered, waiting to attack the escapees.

“Let them leave,” one suggested. “Once they are outside, we can use the DropShip's weaponry to mow them down.”

“What about the techs they have hostage in there?”

“It is no matter.”

“Says you! They have my chief tech,” growled another.

They noticed Sigurd as he approached, and turned. The warrior nearest to him looked startled to see the blood on his clothes, but did not notice the knife he had slipped into the back of his belt.

“Bondsman,” one of them demanded, “what are—? Who—? Explain yourself!”

“Yes,” said a familiar voice. Lorna stepped out from the crowd, giving him a critical look. “Explain yourself.”

Sigurd drew a deep breath to steady his nerves. “One of the mercenaries attacked me. I killed her.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I refused to cooperate with them, Star Captain.” He watched Lorna cautiously, trying to determine her attitude. Her expression clearly indicated skepticism, but he could also see there was a willingness to listen. “I do not know what they plan, but they spoke of meeting someone called Norwich for extraction.”

“Bloody freebirths,” she cursed.

“What are we waiting for?” asked a warrior. “Star Captain, we can take them.”

“And lose more techs?” Lorna shook her head. “We need to distract the mercenaries.”

Almost at once, the warriors turned towards Sigurd.

“I will help in any way you require,” he offered.

“Good. Perhaps you can make them see reason, and release the techs. They may be more willing to listen to you, than to us.”

 

 

Sigurd was not so sure about this plan of Lorna's. It was fairly certain the mercenaries had not procured any firearms, so he did not have to worry about being shot the moment he entered the hangar. One to one, he gave himself good odds against any of them. He could not take on all at once, though. If the mercs decided to rush him, things would go badly. Still, he had to at least try to speak with Emma.

He brought his arms up defensively and slipped through the door as the warriors forced it open part-way. Almost immediately, he came face to face with one of the mercs: a man just a little taller than himself, but almost twice as broad. The mercenary seemed startled, but reacted quickly and swung a heavy wrench at him. Sigurd brought his arm up along the inside of the other man's to deflect the strike, and kicked him in the hip. As the merc fell backwards, Sigurd put some more distance between them.

“Emma!” he shouted, scanning the cavernous hangar for her. He glanced back to the sentry he had just pushed, and saw the man moving towards him again; others began to join. “Emma, I want to talk to you!”

The big man rushed at him, swinging the wrench again. Sigurd grabbed the man's wrist and dug his fingers in hard. The merc stumbled and grit his teeth against the pain as he threw a punch at the bondsman. Sigurd kneed him in the gut and grabbed his head, slamming it down against the nearest piece of machinery. Whether or not it was a killing blow, Sigurd had no time to find out. The rest of the mercenaries were starting to move in closer, armed with their own improvisational weapons, and looked increasingly angry.

“Hold it,” Emma called.

Her voice carried easily throughout the hangar, though she did not sound agitated or angry. Presently, she emerged from an APC near the loading ramp, and moved past the mercenaries. They held their positions, but kept whatever weapons they had found or constructed at the ready. Emma climbed up onto one of the catwalks and studied Sigurd intently.

“Frankly, I'm a little surprised to see you, after you turned on us.”

“I defended myself,” he said sternly. He took a deep breath to rein in his anger, and put up his hands to assuage her. Cautiously, he walked past the mercs to the opposite end of the catwalk from her. “I just want to talk.”

She shook her head as he approached. “You can do it from there.”

He stopped. “Emma, listen to me. You cannot get out of here. Even if you make it out of the hangar, the DropShip will shoot your vehicle as soon as you leave.”

“Good bluff,” she snapped, “but we have their techs.”

“There is no point in holding them hostage! They have done nothing to you, and the Wolves will shoot, anyway.” He was not sure if that last part was accurate, given the warriors' hesitancy to lose more service personnel. Sigurd did not doubt they could be pushed to it, though.

She shook her head again. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? They'll kill us if we stay.” Emma looked down at the mercs by the APC, and then strode forward. “Keep working, and leave this to me.”

Sigurd hesitated for an instant as she approached him, confused, but it was all the time she needed to strike. Emma drew a knife from her belt and then stabbed at him in one smooth motion. He cursed himself for not anticipating it or striking her instead, when he had the chance.

Whatever her skills in a BattleMech may have been, Emma was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat. She was light on her feet and her opening jab grazed across Sigurd's ribs as he dodged. He cautiously retreated a couple steps more. With all the tools and parts littering the catwalk, there was not much room to maneuver.

She darted after him and slashed at his face, then followed up with a hard kick designed to throw him off-balance. Both attacks missed as Sigurd ducked low to avoid the knife, and then turned to dodge her boot. As soon as he was clear of her strikes, Sigurd leapt after her. Once his feet hit the catwalk, however, Emma lunged at him again, trying to catch him in the midst of regaining his balance. He snaked away from her and brought one hand up along the inside of her arm, then slammed the heel of his other palm into her elbow, dislocating the joint.

Emma stifled a yelp and tried to hold the knife, but her fingers would not cooperate. It slipped from her hand, clattered to the floor, and then slid off the catwalk to the bottom of the hangar. She pulled back from him, facilitating her escape with a kick to his shin. Emma then drew herself up straight, and brought her good arm up to block his next move. Even more than pain, her face was now a mask of rage.

Sigurd shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and took a cautious step forward amongst the machinery. He saw Emma's body twitch in preparation to move, and kicked a wrench into her path. She slipped, stumbled forward, and caught herself just as he threw a punch towards her. Emma instinctively grabbed the rail with her injured arm, which clearly put her in more pain, but saved her from getting punched in the stomach. Sigurd turned in towards her, closing the distance between them, and quickly made up for his previous miscalculation with a few quick strikes to her midsection.

Surprisingly, she managed to pull herself up and retreat out of reach. Just as quickly as she moved back, however, Emma darted forward again to get close enough to grapple him. Sigurd felt her grab his shirt and turn her hip in towards his, in preparation for a throw. He grabbed the rail beside them for support and threw his weight back against her, while his free hand drew the knife from his belt. Despite his attempts to steady himself, they landed together in a heap, each struggling to subdue the other. Emma grabbed something off the floor and swung it at him, but missed hitting him in the head. He felt her blood stream down over his hand where he had stabbed or sliced her in the fray.

They tussled for a bit, each still trying to force submission from the other, and traded blows. Sigurd managed to pin down Emma's legs with his own, which kept her from kicking him, but she landed some surprisingly hard punches with her uninjured arm. One of her fists grazed his head and blackened his vision for a moment. Sigurd chided himself, realizing Emma was probably just as stubborn as he was. He had already cut her and she showed no signs of letting up, in spite of the blood she was losing. He let go of his knife and pushed it away, then wrapped his arms tight around her and rolled over onto his back. At the same time, he brought one of his legs up between them and shoved her away with a rough kick. As Emma flew back, he grabbed up his knife again and leapt to his feet. She clutched her side, her hand pressed over a growing red stain on her shirt. Emma shuddered briefly, and let her wounded arm hang at her side.

At that moment, a distinctive plinking sound filled the hangar, almost like soft chimes or a sudden light rain. Recognizing it, Sigurd dropped to his knees and curled his arms over his head. Startled cries and screams of pain rang out immediately as the weapons fire began, and several of the mercenaries fell to the floor. They were not dead but lay writhing, their torn flesh peppered with tiny flechettes.

“STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE!”

Lorna and the other warriors burst into the hangar, needler rifles at the ready and trained on anyone still moving. Spurred by their comrades' moans of pain, the few mercs in the APC filed out with their hands up. A few bewildered-looking techs climbed out after them, cautiously. Sigurd stood and put his hands behind his head, in hopes that the warriors would not mistakenly shoot him.

Suddenly, the flash from a laser pistol lit the air, and one of the techs dropped dead. The others immediately bolted towards the safety of their Clankin, while the warriors opened fire on the mercenaries. Some of the hire-swords screamed for mercy, but the warriors were already worked into a rage. A few of them, led by Lorna, rushed at the APC, and unleashed a fusillade into the cab. There were some laser shots in reply, and one of the warriors stumbled back, but the return fire quickly subsided. He could just make out a bloodied arm hanging limp out the door of the cab. One of the warriors approached and nudged it with her rifle. A small chunk of meat dropped off.

Standing, Sigurd caught a sudden blur of movement from the corner of his eye, and brought his hands down just in time to catch Emma at the shoulders as she tackled him. They still fell backwards, even as he brought his knee up into her sternum, and she put her hands to his throat. Sigurd brought his arms up inside hers and pressed against the inside of her elbows, easily breaking her hold.

Emma cocked her arm to punch him again, but one of the MechWarriors grabbed her by the wrist before she could hit. He pulled her away from Sigurd roughly, and jerked her up to her feet. The Clanner shoved her back into one of the walls.

“I never thought you were stupid enough to try something like this, bondsman,” the man sighed. “You were a good technician. I had hopes for you.”

Emma stared back at him defiantly. “Go fuck yourself, Sosimo.”

He looked visibly disgusted. “Star Captain!” he called, not taking his eyes off of the woman in front of him. Sosimo raised the rifle to his shoulder. “Where shall we take the survivors?”

“ _What_ survivors?” she called back. Then, almost as an afterthought Lorna added, “Spare the Star Colonel's bondsman.”

Sigurd stood up slowly and glanced over at Emma. For a moment, she met his eyes. He expected to see anger, hatred. Instead, there was an unexpected sadness in them. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

With no further hesitation, Sosimo fired.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Akela makes a promise.

Chapter 13

 

“I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

Emma's words echoed in his mind for days. Every time he thought of her, he remembered perfectly the remorse in her voice and the sadness in her eyes. There was a sense of pity in her expression.

It made him angry.

 _Why did you think I need to be saved?_ Sigurd thought, balling his fists.

He had trusted her. He had trusted her, and she had betrayed him while claiming to her last breath that she desired to save him.

_What did you think you needed to save me from?_

She did not understand. She never had.

He sighed and looked down at the bundle of clothes folded neatly on his bunk. There was a simple olive-drab shirt and a camo-patterned coat and trousers, which together made up the standard fatigues that the Wolves wore. The Laborer Caste uniform he had previously worn was gone when he returned from showering, replaced with these garments and a note from the Star Colonel. He had read it twice now, because he did not believe its contents the first time. Now, just to spend a few more moments, he read it again.

Finally, Sigurd set the note aside and dressed.

As he readied himself, he thought again of the InnerSphere, of the Periphery and of Rotwelt, his home. He had known for some time—but only now processed—that he would not see it again. He would never again see anyone he had called a friend. All of the things that once kept him moored were cut away. Dread crept into his heart for an instant, but the very next, he found himself content.

There was a sense of relief in knowing he had nothing left to lose.

It was true that his resolve had wavered at times, but his path was now clear. He would proceed into the maw of this beast and gut it from the inside. It would take time, but that was one thing he had in abundance. Time and _will_.

 

 

There were fewer of them now than there had been all those months ago. As they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, however, the Wolf Clan warriors looked no less fearsome. Many he recognized, but just as many of them were new faces: members of the Cluster's other Binaries, who had regrouped with the main body here on Traion. They had gathered in a meadow, just outside the DropShip, and now formed a tight circle. Their grey dress uniforms seemed to melt into the mist that swirled about their legs, except for the red piping along the outsides of their sleeves and trousers.

Not one of them looked at Sigurd as he approached. They remained at attention and stared unblinking into the center of the circle. In the middle, a single warrior stood. He wore the same dress uniform as the others, but his face was obscured by an intricately-fashioned wolf mask. The subtle tilt of the officer's head and the way he carried himself revealed it to be Akela.

Sigurd felt under-dressed in the comparatively plain field uniform he had been given.

In one sudden movement, the warriors to his left and right stepped aside. He glanced over at them, but they still kept their eyes on Akela. There was barely enough room to pass between them without his shoulders touching theirs. Although had not been given much instruction about these proceedings, it was easy enough to guess his part now. Sigurd took a concise step forward. As soon as he crossed into the circle, it closed behind him; he continued inward.

Once he had closed within arm's reach of Akela, the Star Colonel began to speak the ritual words of the ceremony.

“Trothkin seen and unseen,” he announced with a volume that carried his voice through the whole meadow, “near and far, living and dead, rejoice as the Wolf has brought us a foundling.”

Around him, the warriors replied in unison, “Seyla.”

Even in the warmth of the morning sunlight, there was something imposing about all of this. Sigurd locked his eyes on the Star Colonel and tried to keep his expression neutral.

“I am the Oathmaster. All shall be bound by this Conclave, until we are dust once more, and beyond that time unto the end of all things.”

“Seyla.”

Although Akela's mask was fixed, the snarl crafted into it seemed for a moment to curve into a grin. A trick of the morning light, Sigurd assured himself.

“Who among you,” Akela asked, “would deny this pup his life?”

The circle broke as one of its members stepped forward, but it quickly snapped back into place. The man was small for a Clanner, with large, searching eyes. His light build marked him as an Aerospace pilot. “I am Aren of the Wolves,” he said. “Oathmaster, I ken death from the skies for this pup. Aye, it is death I see.”

Sigurd turned to face the man, so he could look his challenger in the eye.

“Who among you would deny this vision?” asked Akela.

Again, the circle shifted. Another Aerospacer stepped forward, and stopped even with the first. “I am Ke-huy of the Wolves. Oathmaster, it is my ken that this pup need fear nothing from the skies.” As he finished speaking, Ke-huy glanced aside into the crowd for an instant.

Sigurd followed his gaze to Lorna. Then, he recognized the man as her pilot sibkin. He did not need to guess why Aren had “attacked” him, but he realized the defense must have come at Lorna's behest; the slight tilt of her head indicated approval. Both pilots stepped back and were quickly reabsorbed into the circle.

“I am Elaine Sradac,” spoke a voice behind him. “Oathmaster, I ken death by the hand for this pup. Aye, it is death I see.”

He saw Mira from the corner of his eye, but she did not so much as flinch. To his surprise, another Elemental stepped forward, instead. This woman had deep umber eyes and wore her springy hair in intricate braids close against her scalp. He had seen her before, but did not think he had met her.

“I am Tammi of the Wolves,” she said with a certain sternness.

So, they had met, after all. She was Jay's successor.

“Oathmaster, it is my ken that this pup need fear nothing from the hand.”

The Elementals disappeared back into the crowd at once. The next person to enter the circle came as no surprise to him.

“I am Gunnar of the Wolves. Oathmaster, I ken death for this pup from his equals,” he snarled. “Aye, it is death I see for this _freebirth_.”

Akela's posture changed slightly, reflecting dissatisfaction with Gunnar's subtle deviation from the ritual challenge. Still, he said nothing, and merely allowed the next warrior to step forward.

Lorna walked up beside her sibkin. “I am Lorna of the Wolves,” she said, paying no mind to the glowering man beside her. “Oathmaster, it is my ken that this foundling has nothing to fear from his equals.” Like the others before them, the two MechWarriors returned to their places. Lorna did not smile but there was something in her face that read as satisfaction, perhaps at Gunnar's expense. Sigurd quickly gained the impression that this was not about him.

“Thrice has this pup been challenged, and thrice have our Clankin risen to defend him. Thrice have we been set upon, and as many times he has stood by our warriors. Sponsored by the Wolf, warded by the Clan, all is in order,” he declared. Then, he turned to Sigurd. “Give me your right hand.”

_Yes, do that. Place your hand in the wolf's jaws,_ whispered a voice that was both his and not-quite his, _just like Týr._

Sigurd felt a twinge of phantom pain in his right arm as he thought of it, making his muscles jerk taut, but then relaxed. The action was too brief for any of the warriors to notice. He remained careful not to show any hint of anxiety, yet felt keenly aware of the bondcord encircling his wrist as he extended his hand to Akela. He had not come this far only to back down now.

The Star Colonel clasped his own hand around Sigurd's wrist. Only his eyes were visible behind the mask, but there was the hint of a smile in them. In a voice too low for the others to hear, he murmured, “ _Me duce tutus eris,_ Icarus.”

Before Sigurd could so much as blink, Akela drew the knife from his belt. All at once, he raised the bondsman's arm skyward and plunged his knife down. Sigurd felt the cool touch of the metal against his skin for an instant, and then the bondcord fell. All three cords were sliced cleanly.

Akela flipped the knife over and folded its hilt into Sigurd's hand, then turned to the crowd.

“I, Akela Kerensky, Star Colonel of the Thirteenth Wolf Regulars and Oathmaster of this Conclave, do welcome you, Sigurd, to the Wolf Clan. From this moment forth, your old life is void. You are bondsman no longer, but once more a warrior. You belong now to us, to this Pack, and you will be known henceforth as Sigurd Wolf. All are to abide by the _rede_ given here, today. Thus will it stand until we all shall fall!”

“Thus will it stand until we all shall fall,” the warriors repeated. Even in the open space of the field, their voices thundered in unison.

Sigurd lowered his arm back to his side and looked around at the gathered warriors. They were no longer his enemies but his peers, if only for a time. Most kept a stoic expression as befitting the ceremony, though he noticed Mira had allowed herself a faint smile. Gunnar, whom he expected to see scowling at him, had already disappeared. Presently, the rest of the warriors dispersed, but the Star Colonel remained at his side.

Akela removed his wolf mask and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “That was fun,” he said with a chuckle, watching the warriors as they left. “I miss the bit we used to do with the swords, though.”

“Swords?” Sigurd repeated.

“People kept getting hurt,” he explained with a shrug. “There have been a few other changes to the adoption ceremony. Had to simplify things since the Harvest Trials, quiaff? Still, it is much more exciting than the paperwork that goes with this.” He smiled. “How do you feel, Sigurd Wolf?”

That was a difficult question. “I do not know. I guess I am a little... surprised?” Sigurd looked down at the knife still in his palm and turned it around, examining the blade. “After... Well, after what happened with Emma, I...” His voice trailed off. Truthfully, he knew how he felt, but that was something he could not divulge to Akela.

The Star Colonel shook his head. “I did not expect she would sway you.”

“You place a great deal of faith in me, ovkhan.”

“None that you have not earned. When the mercenaries razed our base, you could have easily escaped. It is unlikely that we would have caught you,” Akela said. “The moment you turned back to help me, I knew you would join us. You have only continued to prove your worth since then, and have demonstrated the values befitting a warrior of this Clan.”

Sigurd nodded and offered the knife back to his superior.

“Neg, that is yours.”

As he slid the knife into the scabbard at his hip, he realized they were the only two still in the field. Sigurd furrowed his brow. “You told me something during the ceremony. What was it?”

The Clansman smiled wolfishly.

“Follow me, and I will keep you safe.”


	14. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neelam has questions.

Interlude I

 

Neelam stared intently at the computer screen, scribbling on his datapad out of habit while he watched the slow crunch of information. After a few false starts at writing notes, he instead stood up, stretched and looked at the clock. It was getting late and he was growing tired, but never could resist a puzzle. He decided to stay until the profiling software completed its task. His inquisitiveness had sometimes been a problem in the past, but he would rather give up his right arm than his curiosity. Intan could always grow him a new one, anyway.

“Who are you?” he muttered aloud, as if the strands of DNA would answer him.

Neelam put his stylus to the datapad surface again, and this time, actually wrote something worthwhile. Lately, his waking hours were consumed with anxiety, and his sleep was plagued by terrible visions. Each night he saw shards of sunlight falling from the sky, turning everything around him to ash when they landed. It filled him with fear, not for himself, but for his Clan. This present diversion was just what he needed to help take his mind off of that.

Chiefly, he was still adjusting after the move to Weingarten. It was sudden, but the planet was relatively quiet, had mild seasons, and (of course) excellent wine. All in all, it was a very nice place to live. He felt glad to have come here, glad that his children could come with him, and relieved to have even survived.

The one thing he did not like was the time it was taking him and his remaining colleagues to get their new lab in proper order. They had lost much on Tamar. Still, they did not despair. They would pick up the pieces, adapt to their new environment, and continue their work. They would survive. They were Wolves, after all.

Neelam looked up from his scrawling notes when the computer chimed. He frowned a little, disappointed that it was not the sound of a completed profile, then slid the device over in front of him and put down his stylus. Someone was sending him a message. After a brief moment of indecision, he opened it.

“Hello, Neelam.”

He startled a little at seeing the other man. The combination of new and familiar was off-putting. It had been a long time since they had last spoken, and both of them had changed. Neelam frowned as he regained his composure and studied the other man's face. It was so much like his, and yet not: a reflection of who he might have been. His own features had softened over the years and he had lost some of the muscle he carried in his youth, owing to his more sedentary occupation as a geneticist. The other man was still just as broad-shouldered and muscular as ever, but now sported a short beard and an unpleasant-looking scar over his scalp.

“Hello, Star Colonel.”

The MechWarrior laughed. “Such formality, Neelam!” he said, shaking his head, and gave a characteristically genial smile. “There is no need for that between _sibkin_ , quineg?”

“Of course, Akela.” Neelam frowned again.

“How have you been, of late?”

“Fairly well,” he replied hesitantly. “Things have been tight since— uh, since _moving_ , but I think everything will be okay, now. Everyone's working their hardest to get the program back on track. I'm excited about what we're doing. You'll, um, understand that I can't say more on the chatterweb.”

Akela tilted his head a little. “Mm, yes, of course. But—”

“And don't get on me about my language.” Neelam heaved a defensive sigh.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” his sibkin replied, mischievously. “Oh, I nearly forgot. How are your, uh—?”

“ _Children?_ ”

Even when asking the question, it was obvious that Akela could not quite stomach the thought of it. Few trueborns could. Neelam had been just as averse to the idea himself when he first entered the Scientist Caste. Over time, however, he had settled into civilian life. He enjoyed being a parent, now.

“They are also well. Franklin is still a little upset about moving, but Rosalind is old enough to understand. She has excelled in her studies, lately. I know she is young and I'm biased, but I think she'll be a very good scientist, someday,” he said. “Would you like to say 'hello' to them?”

He saw Akela stiffen momentarily. “That is not necessary.”

Neelam chuckled a little. He knew his sibkin only asked after the children because it seemed the proper thing to do when speaking to civilians, and not because he actually cared. No bloodnamed Warrior would really want to socialize with a subcaster's bastard whelps—not even Akela.

“So, what _did_ you want?” Neelam asked, and propped his chin up on his fist.

“You always assign ulterior motives to me.”

“You always have them.”

Akela shrugged. “I did, in fact, wish to talk to you,” he said. “Although... I also wanted to know if you received the package I sent.”

“Ah, there it is!” Neelam laughed, spinning his chair around once. Getting his sibkin to confess was a small victory, but he would take what he could. “Yes, I got the parcel and your instructions. I was actually working on that, when you contacted me. There were two vials of blood, though...”

“Aff.”

The computer analysis had already identified the sample marked only as “CONTROL.” Asking about that one, (why send _that_ one?), would only get him the usual rigmarole from Akela. Neelam pressed the matter of the unmarked vial. “Who does the other belong to?”

His sibkin's expression changed from one of reserve to a broad, wolfish smile.

Neelam did not like that. He had seen that exact look almost fifteen years ago, right before Akela beat one of their sibkin to death in a Circle of Equals. He could no longer remember who instigated the fight—only that Akela had finished it. Neelam remembered this, because it was the precise moment when he realized he would never be a warrior. He had the required skills, the strength, the intelligence, and reflexes necessary to be a MechWarrior. He simply lacked the ferocity.

As a geneticist, he had often pondered that in the years since. The two of them shared the same geneparents, grew up in the same environment, and both made it past the crèche and into sibko training. They even looked uncannily alike. Yet Akela was the only one who ended up with the killer instinct that the Clan sought to instill in them. Neelam could not help but wonder why.

“Do not worry yourself overmuch about that. It is just a curiosity that I found in my travels. By the way,” Akela assured him, still smiling, “I think that this would best be kept between ourselves. _Quiaff?_ ”

“Aff, sibkin.” Neelam lowered his head a little. “I will send you my analysis as soon as it's complete.”

“Thank you. It really _is_ good to talk to you, Neelam.” Akela's expression became more somber. “You know, we two are the only ones left.”

“Yes. I know.” He sighed. “Good bye, Akela.”

“Good bye, sibkin.”

Neelam closed the messaging program and resumed his work. He had been happy to fail his Blooding and wash out to the Scientist Caste, which was something Akela had never understood.

MechWarriors lived for destruction and sought immortality through names and deeds. As a bloodnamed warrior, Akela's genes would one day be used to create a sibko of new warrior-hopefuls. It was Neelam, however, who would oversee the creation of those trueborns and thousands more like them. Warriors could not comprehend the thrill and joy of creation. They could not understand the magnitude of being entrusted to shape the Clan's very future through the careful merger of gametes.

These days, however, the eugenics program was becoming a dangerous occupation. There was a lot of _chalcas_ talk on the chatterweb, and he had heard terrible rumors from the Homeworlds. There was a poison of the mind amongst the Scientists of some Clans. Neelam dearly hoped it had not spread to the Wolves.

For centuries, the geneticists had enjoyed a special place in the Clan. The scientists were second only to the Warrior Caste, and their work was regarded as almost holy. Right now, however, some insurance against hard times seemed a prudent investment. He wasn't sure what the Star Colonel wanted out of this, but he would go along with it while it suited his own purposes.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, breaking his concentration. Intan walked into the lab. “You're here awfully late,” she said, leaning against the door frame.

“I was just finishing up.” Neelam picked up his datapad and shoved it into his lab coat pocket.

“He called you, didn't he?” Her expression shifting into the same mask of scrutiny she displayed when poring over difficult specimens. Intan pursed her lips as she looked him in the eye. “I don't know why you're getting involved in... whatever this is.” If he lied, she would know.

He never lied to her. “Don't worry about that.” Downplayed things sometimes, perhaps. But he never _lied_ to her. Neelam walked around to the other side of the desk and pulled her close, kissing her forehead. “It's just a small favor.”

She sighed a little and leaned against him. “Of course. Everyone owes favors to the Kerenskys.”

He chuckled and stroked through her hair. “No, my dear, you misunderstand. Akela now owes a favor to _me_.”


End file.
